The Victors Project
by Oisin55
Summary: Before Katniss and Peeta, seventy-three children won the Hunger Games. Some were brutal. Some were clever. Some were lucky. A few were almost decent. These are their stories. This is the Victors Project.
1. Prologue

**Author's note:**

**If you are familiar with my two previous novels **_**The Lumberjack and the Tree-Elf**_** and **_**Fall Into the River**_** (in progress), you will know that I harbour a fascination with the Victors in Suzanne Collins' **_**Hunger Games. **_**While Collins obviously focuses on the story of Katniss, and to a lesser degree Peeta and Haymitch, my work focuses on expanding the story of the seventy-one previous Victors. My hope is that it expands the Hunger Games universe in such a way that encourages people to see lives and faces behind the names dropped so briefly in the trilogy and to further encourage people to sit down and start writing themselves.**

**I am, of course, not Suzanne Collins. All my work is fan-based and non-commercial. I'm just playing in the sandbox that Collins built. My work is not meant to be taken as canon. Just fanon. Because that apparently is a word.**

_**The Victors Project**_** is something I have been brainstorming and drafting for a long time and have been eager to launch. **_**TVP**_** will give a glimpse into the lives of each Victor through one-shots focused on various moments in their lives, either before, during, or after the Games that made them national celebrities. I have three purposes for this work. First, to expand the fanon that I've been working on for about two years. If you've read my other works, you'll notice some familiar names. Second, for pure entertainment and fun. And third, to garner interest in launching **_**The Victors Project**_** into an independent website, in which several fanfiction authors combine efforts to make an online series based on the twenty-two Quarter Quell tributes all rooted in the same canon.**

**That being said, everything here is subject to revision if I get better ideas. So there.**

**With that, I hope you enjoy….**

_**The Victors Project**_

Johanna Mason:

"Well, I think it's a wonderful idea," says Annie. She pushes her long brown hair out of her eyes and smiles at the room.

"You would," I say. I toss my axe into the air and catch it as it comes down without looking at it. I test the edge for effect.

Annie narrows her eyes. "Would you stop doing that, please? You'll upset the baby."

I roll my eyes and don't bother reminding her that her little whelp isn't even in the room with us. She'd probably launch straight into a panic and start screaming that they're taking her boy away again, to the Games or to the Capitol. It's a miracle she was even persuaded to let someone volunteer for babysitting duty long enough to come to this meeting.

I hope she asked Gale.

Beetee is saying something inane about brain-medicine, like a tech expert knows anything about human psychology. I tune him out and walk to the window. I push away the cloth-of-silver curtains and stare at the Capitol glowing in the summer sun. The steel and silver towers soar, less than there were a year ago, but still imposing. The golden domes and colored windows have mostly been replaced, the craters filled in, and of course the bodies were removed right away. Paylor has done a good job fooling people into thinking things are almost normal.

The Victors know better, of course. The Games are over, but there is no normal. Not for us.

It's the sight of the Capitol population milling around in the City Center below us, dressed in their silk and satin and feathers, walking and gossiping and shopping and breathing like they _deserve_ to that makes me turn away and return to the conversation.

"- all for it," Connor is saying. "I know Blight had access to the National Library before the Quell. He told me there were books on every subject hidden away in there. It shouldn't be hard to get in there and find some on the history of Panem and the start of the Games. Some of the old Victors even had their old journals stuck in there after they died, according to him."

I glare at my fellow district Victor. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?" I ask. "Coin said there were only seven of us left. Me, Cresta, Bread-Boy, the Edible Root, Dental Hygiene, the Bar on Two Legs, and Volts."

"What Coin didn't know didn't hurt her. Or me," Connor adds as he rubs the stump where his left arm used to be.

Beetee clears his throat. "During the last meeting that Alma Coin held with the Victors, the districts were still in disarray. Communications were down, infrastructure had collapsed, and there was no travel except by hovercraft, and those were extremely limited. A number of Victors went underground when the revolution was launched, either in fear of the Capitol or of Coin's regime. We've located eight other survivors thus far, with several others still unaccounted for."

"And I suppose you think this is a fantastic idea," I growl at him, crossing my arms.

Beetee raises an eyebrow. "Of course. Preservation of the past, especially of past atrocities, is necessary to ensure a better and more enlightened future for our next generation."

"Your next generation, maybe," I say. "I don't see what's so special about popping out some spawn anyway."

Annie smiles. "I wonder if Gale is of the same mind?" she mumbles.

I really hate it when she's not in her own little zone sometimes.

"The point is, it helps," says Peeta, speaking for the first time since he brought up the idea. "It's helped Katniss tremendously. She's hunting and singing again. She talks on the phone and answers her letters. She's even made several trips out of the district, for the funerals and to see her mother."

"Well huzzah, let's get Paylor to drape her with another medal," I say.

Bread-Boy ignores me. "The book has done a lot of good. Not just for her. For me. For Haymitch. For everyone who's contributed to it, I think."

I can't exactly argue with this, having pasted the picture of Blight and Jason into that book myself. I content myself with throwing my axe into the mahogany paneled wall. I'm disappointed when no one jumps.

"So we're going to make a new book. For us," says Connor. "A page for every Victor."

Peeta nods. "They deserve it. No one ever won the Hunger Games. Not really. We've honored those who fell. Sometimes it's just as important to remember those who had to survive, who were forced to go on living. I was only a Victor for a year. The Quell was when I met most of you. But you've been friends far longer than you've known me. You laughed with each other, comforted, drank with, allied with, fought with each other. I need your help. All of you."

"So that's why she's here, huh?" I ask, nodding towards the dark figure leaning against the door. "Where have you even been?"

Enobaria's eyes flicker towards me. "None of your business, Mason. If we are honouring my district's Victors, I will be a part of it."

"Me too," says Connor. "For Blight. And Vera, and Jules."

"As will I," says Beetee. "Wiress deserves as much. So do Circe, Mitt, and all the others.

"For Finnick," says Annie. "And Coral. And Mags, bless her."

"For Katniss," says Peeta. "For when she's ready."

There's a long pause as everyone seems to glare at me.

"Fine," I say. "Fine. For…for everyone. I hope you have a big enough book, Mellark. I wouldn't even know where to start."

"The logical place would be, of course, to start at the beginning," says Beetee. "The very first Hunger Games."

"The first Career," Enobaria's teeth glint in the summer sun. "The first Victor."


	2. Ahenobarbus

The first thing Ahenobarbus noticed was the sun.

It blinded him for a moment. After nearly forty-eight hours in the catacombs beneath the arena, the rays of the summer sun at noon were harsh and blistering. He squinted his eyes shut and tried not to lose his sense of balance as the platform raised him up into the newly-renovated Hunger Games stadium.

The second thing he noticed was the cheers.

He opened his eyes the barest slit. Flashes of color danced around the edges of his sight. In the space of a heartbeat his pupils contracted and his body gave him a massive hit of adrenaline. Everything was moving slower than normal, the colors were clearer, fresher, more focused. He could see the beads of sweat on the brows of the other tributes, see each curl of the lip and snarl and shaking fist of the angry crowd surrounding them all.

This was it. It was what he had been preparing for. And in the moment when his platform locked him in place on his pedestal, Ahenobarbus Romero wasn't sure if he was ready.

_Focus,_ he thought_._ _First step is to assess your battleground. It's your greatest enemy and your best ally._

There wasn't much battleground to begin with. His pedestal stood on a stretch of flat, sandy ground. Fifty yards to either end of the arena in all directions. Nothing else. No rocks, no obstacles, no shelter to use for defense. Just sand. And rose petals, and garlands of flowers, from the celebrations and parades Ahenobarbus had heard from the catacombs for hours.

His pedestal stood in a broad ring with twenty-three others. In the center, weapons had been scattered around, just begging to be used. Old weapons, arcane, the likes of which had only been seen in the National Museum of American Art and History before the rebels had blown it to rubble. The concept behind them wasn't difficult to understand. Pick it up by the handle and hit the other guy with the sharp end.

Silver walls rose five meters around the expanse of sand, walling them all in. Above the walls the stands were packed with Capitol citizens. There must have been a hundred thousand of them at least, all cheering and eating and drinking. All dressed in their most ostentatious clothes. Those clothes had been one of the symbols of the rebellion, evidence of the Capitol's debauchery and excess. Those clothes had been why District 8 had blown up its own factories. Why hundreds more had died as the Capitol forced them to work every hour until they had been rebuilt. District 3 hadn't fared much better. Or so Ahenobarbus had heard.

_Keep your mind in the moment, Nobi_, he reminded himself._ After the battleground, focus on your enemies._

Ahenobarbus's enemies were ringed around him, twenty-three shivering and crying children. He had to be one of the oldest. All of them were dressed in white tunics and boots. _Sacrificial white_, the stylist who dressed them all had said. _To remind you of your sins._ Nobi strongly suspected that it was really meant to make the bloodstains show.

He considered trying to find Cassia for a moment, then decided against it. The girl he had come to the Capitol with was sweet in her own way. Angry and fiery too. Nobi liked that in a girl. He had liked it in Cassia when she stalked up to the stage after her name was called and flashed a rude sign to the cameras. He had liked it when she insulted the Capitol clown who escorted them to the catacombs. And he had especially liked it when she came to him in the metal cage they shared last night beneath the arena, and slipped off her purple district dress, and undid his trousers and pulled him out and asked him to make her feel like a lover, once, just once before the night was over. She wasn't saying his name when he finished. He didn't care.

"How does it feel to be the first girl to sleep with a Victor?" he had whispered in her ear as he lay on top of her.

She had slapped him. He liked that too.

But that was over. She was the granddaughter of district rebels. His father was a war hero. Maybe the Capitol would enjoy watching both of them ally to take down the others, but his father's only advice had been to run her through first.

_If only you knew, Dad._

The rest of the tributes weren't really worth noting. Everyone had expected the arena to be filled with the children of the rebels, but most of the rebel kids were dead or imprisoned anyway, and that wasn't the point. The Games weren't meant to punish only those who fought. It was meant to punish those who had watched the fighting and did nothing. Neutrality was treason.

The exception stood opposite him. Jon Undersee was ignoring the crowd, the arena, the other tributes. He didn't spare a glance towards the pile of weapons heaped in front of him even though Ahenobarbus was certain Jon was the only other tribute who might have the ability to use them. Undersee had eyes only for his sister, who was standing two spots to Ahenobarbus's right. He had heard that Jon had escaped to 12 after the destruction of District 13, that Ryla had been imprisoned with her mother in 5. This was probably the first time they were seeing each other since the Treaty of Treason had been signed six months ago. He doubted anyone believed they had both been randomly reaped for the very first Hunger Games considering who they were.

Considering who their parents were.

Trumpets blared out from hidden loudspeakers. Ahenobarbus tried to focus on the weapons in front of him, tried to pick which one would be easiest for him to use, but he couldn't help looking up towards the presidential box, where lights were flashing and fireworks were blazing and President Lucius was standing up next to his wife and ministers, raising his hands.

"Welcome, welcome," he said. As always, his voice sounded like redcurrant jam and rockslides. At least that's how his ma had described it once. "Welcome to the First Annual Hunger Games! Not a year ago, our nation was nearly in shambles. Traitors and rebels almost succeeded in tearing apart all we had worked so hard to achieve. But through trials, through suffering, through victory, we prevailed! The brave and the courageous have triumphed! Panem today, Panem forever!"

The crowd roared. Ahenobarbus felt a thrill of pride. His district had been the loyal one. He was among the brave, the courageous.

"And to remind the districts of the consequence of treason, we have established this pageant of courage and sacrifice. The tributes before you were selected to represent their homes and their families. Tributes, we honor you, and drink to your bravery."

A thousand crystal glasses flashed in the sun.

"To the Victor shall come riches and a life without want, as a reminder of our compassion, and our mercy."

President Lucius raised a red hankerchief. "And now, ladies and gentlemen. Let the First Annual Hunger Games begin!"

The scream of the crowd seemed to hold the scrap of cloth aloft for a moment. It hovered, drifted, and then fell to the sandy ground. The moment it hit the speakers began to count down.

"_Sixty. Fifty-Nine. Fifty-Eight."_

Ahenobarbus was ready. He had to be ready. He had been chosen for this. It was his duty. This was all for him.

"_Forty-Eight. Forty-Seven, Forty-Six"_

"You know why you were picked, right?" his father had asked as he stepped into the room in the newly constructed Justice Building.

Ahenobarbus had shaken his head. "I don't understand. I fought. I fought for them. I fought for Panem. I fought for _you."_

"Boy, you are as stupid as your mother was."

Ahenobarbus had flinched. His mother had been unloyal, yes. A traitor, a rebel, foolish. But she had never been stupid. Even when her husband had wrapped his hands around her throat and forced the life out of her, she had never been stupid. She just made the wrong choice.

Ahenobarbus had watched. He knew then that he would never make the wrong choice.

"_Thirty-Five. Thirty-Four. Thirty-Three."_

"Do you really believe that the Capitol is going to allow a rebel kid walk away from that arena as a Victor? Can you imagine the president letting a Carrell, or an Undersee, or a Remington live in luxury for the rest of their lives? Do you really think those puffed-up peacocks are going to celebrate the victory of some sniveling little shit from District Six or Eight? Think, boy! The first Victor has to be perfect. They need someone special. Someone brave and deadly. Someone who looks like a Victor. And above all, someone _loyal."_

Ahenobarbus had nodded. He _was_ loyal. And he was brave too. No one could say he wasn't, not after he had been part of the auxiliary squad that had retaken the Mountain Fortress. And he was trained in combat. Ever since the Capitol had announced that District 2 men and women were eligible to enlist in the new military force, Nobi had been training for the day he would wear the Peacekeepers' white.

All that had changed when his name was pulled out of the reaping ball. After everything had happened, Ahenobarbus had simply forgotten that he was still only eighteen. He had felt like a man for so many years.

"_Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen."_

His father had walked up to him, placed his hands on his shoulders, and kissed his head. The first kiss he could remember getting from the man.

"They chose you, son," the hero of District 2 had muttered. "Make me proud."

_I'll make you proud, Dad,_ Ahenobarbus thought. _I'll make the whole district proud._

"_Three. Two. One."_

The gong sounded.

Every instinct roared through Ahenobarbus, screaming at him to run, to grab his weapon, to start fighting. He pushed it down to a place beneath his stomach. His father had drilled this into him throughout the rebellion Unless you have the element of surprise, always let your enemy make the first move. First to move is the first to make a mistake.

The roar of the crowd dwindled as the Capitolians realized no one was playing their Game. All of the tributes remained on their platforms. Many were crying. A few were retching. Undersee was shouting something to his sister that was lost in the buzz of the thousands of other voices.

Ahenobarbus's fingers itched. That machete was only twenty yards away. So close. He could get there before anyone else and start hacking.

_Wait,_ he thought. _Just wait._

"If you're the first to attack, you're the first target," Dad had told him. "All your training won't do you much good if twenty-three fear-crazed teenagers jump you. Let them weed themselves out first."

Except there was no weeding. Not yet. The minutes dragged by. The crowd started to boo. Ahenobarbus risked one glace up towards President Lucius. The regal man was sipping wine, looking supremely unconcerned.

One of the girls screamed. Her shrilling voice seemed to set off a wave of hysteria and soon most of the girls and several of the boys were screaming, shouting, wailing. The crowd laughed and jeered.

And still, no one moved.

For a moment, Ahenobarbus wondered what would happen if they all just refused to play. If every tribute sat down and refused to fight. Would the Capitol start gunning them down? Blow up the mines beneath the pedestals?

He never found out. There was a flash of white and red to his right as Ryla made a break for it.

The rebel girl from 5 dashed to the middle of the arena and snatched up a spear and a scythe. The crowd cheered as she flew towards another tribute, eager for blood, for battle, for vengeance. But Ryla had eyes only for her brother and she leapt up onto the pedestal with him, handing him the scythe as they stood back to back.

It wasn't what the crowd wanted to see. But it was enough.

One of the boys bolted. Ryla had only meant to make it to her brother's side, but the young sandy haired boy from 6 finally snapped and snatched up his own spear. He gave a crazed shout and ran towards the first tribute he recognized. The crowd gasped and cheered as the spear went through the belly of the girl from 6 and a flower of crimson blossomed on her white tunic. Her district partner screamed as he realized what he had done.

A pistol went off high above. First death.

The tension broke. The tributes leapt off their plates, some running to the farthest parts of the area they could find, others trying to grab a weapon.

_It's happening. This is really happening._

It was time.

Ahenobarbus jumped off his own pedestal and raced towards the weapons. He grabbed the machete and turned towards his opponents. Tributes were scattering in every direction, trying to get away from each other and often colliding with others in their wild flights. The boys from 1 and 5 were fighting with swords, awkwardly thrusting at one another. The crowd loved it. The tributes were distracted. It was time for Ahenobarbus to do his duty.

The first tribute he noticed was the boy from 6. He was still frozen by the gutted body of his district partner, shivering from the shock. Killing him was so easy. Just swing the machete and _pop!_ Off comes the head. Like killing a chicken for Sunday soup. Ma always made the best Sunday soup. The pistol shot another round.

The girl from 5 hadn't even moved from her pedestal. She was clutching her tunic over her eyes, hiding her face from the carnage. She didn't even notice Ahenobarbus come up. Her death was a little messier. She was too high for him to reach her neck, so he had to thrust the machete up through her belly and out her back.

Blood soaked the sand and splattered on his tunic. It smelled like the war did.

Several fights were underway by this time. The boy from 5 had won his match and newly emboldened came rushing at the man from 2. One swing of the blade took of the boy's arm. Ahenobarbus didn't stop to check and see if he was dead.

Things started to blur together. Ahenobarbus defended himself from several attacks, but he didn't kill anyone. At least he didn't think so. Several bodies now lay scattered around the arena. He noticed Cassia lying at the bottom of her pedestal, a mace buried in her chest. Her eyes were still pretty though.

Ahenobarbus ignored the rest of the matches blazing around him. He would let the few who were willing to fight finish each other off, weaken each other for the final battles. Instead he found three girls clutching each other in the far end of the arena, right under the presidential box. Colored heads and feathered hats clustered above him as he marched up and dealt the death blows one by one. Flowers and hankerchiefs and perfumed gloves rained down on him.

"Water!" he called. "Does anyone have water?"

A bottle of water dropped from the stands into his waiting hand. He unscrewed the top and toasted the woman who had tossed it, then the presidential box. President Lucius raised his own wine glass to him and drank. Ahenobarbus's heart soared. He could only imagine what his father was thinking.

The man from 2 was beginning to think that the Hunger Games would be the easiest battle of his life until he found himself facing Jon and Ryla Undersee.

Jon leveled his scythe at him. Ryla covered his back with her spear.

"Come to finish what you started, Romero?" Jon asked as he feinted a thrust.

Ahenobarbus deflected the blow. "Just doing my duty, Undersee."

"Your duty." Jon spat on the ground. "Like the rape of Three was your duty? The iron mines massacre? The tracker jackers in Seven? _District Thirteen?_"

"I wasn't at any of those. You know that, Undersee. I stayed in Two. You came to me."

Scythe met machete. And met again. And again.

"I'm sorry for your brother, Ahenobarbus. But we were fighting for our freedom."

"We were fighting for our _home!_" Ahenobarbus roared. "You came into my home, you scraped and spied and tricked us into treating you like a brother! And how did you repay us? You tried to kill us all! You and your parents and all your rebel friends nearly killed us all!"

The blades met harder and faster. Ahenobarbus had more skill. Jon was still fresh. Ryla didn't interfere. She'd only endanger her brother if she tried.

"Do you remember what I told you, Romero? That last night before I escaped?"

"I remember," growled Ahenobarbus. "Don't you dare say it again."

"Death has no meaning. It's how we live that gives meaning to the dead we loved."

Ahenobarbus roared and raised his blade, but his anger and rage and grief slowed him down and he felt the deep bite of steel in his side. He didn't even hear the gasp of the crowd. There was only him. And the pain. And Undersee.

Ahenobarbus gave his enemy one last gift in death. He ripped the spear from Ryla's hands. Distracted by the unexpected counter and taken off guard by the man's strength, neither Jon nor Ryla had time to counter Ahenobarbus's attack. He reversed the spear and thrust it through both of them, killing them instantly. In the end, neither was forced to mourn the other, even for a minute.

Ahenobarbus glared down at the body of the boy from 12 as the pistol shot off two rounds. Jon Undersee was no fighter. He had been a spy. A brilliant tactician. A worthy enemy.

And for a short period of time, Ahenobarbus had called him a friend.

The world went red. The arena blurred together in a fog of blood and pain. Ahenobarbus roared and tore through the arena like a storm off the sea in District 4. Anything that moved he cut down, anything that fled he pursued until he was bathing in a river of blood and gore. He wasn't sure who he was killing anymore, if it was tributes or children or rebels or Peacekeepers or the President or his parents or Jon Undersee. All that mattered was that he killed. All that matter was that he killed all of them before he started feeling again.

In the end, he was just kneeling in the sand, pain rolling off his side in waves, cutting up what was left of the boy from 8 as the trumpets sounded and people were screaming his name and a loud voice said something about the first Victor, Ahenobarbus Romero.

The First Hunger Games lasted thirty-eight minutes and ended with a Victor who killed fifteen of his opponents.


	3. Luxe

Everything Ahenobarbus Romero was, Luxe St. James was not.

At least that's what his mother kept telling herself as the carriage rattled along the cobblestones of District 1.

"He's a good boy," she muttered as she ran her hands over the leather cover of the topmost book on her lap. "He's such a good boy."

She had screamed it as well, when they first took him. When his name had been pulled out of the glass ball at the reaping. The girl had been up there already, some crafter's daughter whom no one would miss. And then the Capitol representative, dressed all up in saffron with sunflowers in her hair, had tripped up to the second bowl, and pulled out a slip of paper, and opened it, and…and…

"It's not fair!" she had screamed as her husband and oldest son held her back. "It's not fair! He's a good boy! Don't take him, he's a good boy!"

He was a good boy. He was a _St. James!_

It wasn't fair.

The carriage bounced over a rough patch of the road and the sketchbooks and scraps of paper tumbled from her lap. She snatched them up, clutching them against her chest when she had them all gathered together. They were so beautiful, her son's drawings. She flipped through a few of them. Sketches of dogs and horses, carriages and fountains and flowers. Portraits of Luxe's sisters smiled up at her, as real as life. A couple of the girl Luxe had been seeing. Gemma, if her memory served. She had been a sweet girl, but not from a family of good standing. Not a rebel of course, oh no, District 1 had precious few of those to begin with, but still, not a St. James.

But Gemma had been gone two years now, killed in the final rebel attempt to take the district back. It had almost been a relief, although she certainly couldn't have said that to Luxe. The poor boy had already been through so much.

So had District 1. The gardens were blossoming again, the fountains were flowing, the workshops bustling and everyone who could work had jobs and food. District 1 had been spared most of the horrors of the uprising, even more than the Capitol. A few terrorist bombings, several riots in the lower city, and those dreadful jabberjays, but nothing further. The St. James family had staunchly supported the Capitol of course. The Capitol had provided them with everything – the chance to make exquisite leather handbags and wallets, their workshop, labor, even schooling for the children. Her husband had hosted the Capitol command for dinner several times during the occupation. Mrs. St. James had personally met the First Lady. The photo was on her desk.

And Luxe's name had still been called.

No one had expected him to come home. Luxe had always been different. Not weak, not a coward. But he had no interest in joining the militia like his brother, although the organisation was now purely ceremonial. He would rather chat with the board of designers about the art of leather dye than learn the mechanics of running the family business. And he was always at his sketchbooks, running stick of charcoal in broad, clean strokes, making paper come to life.

"We love you," she had said in the Justice Building before the train to the Capitol took him away. _We'll_ _miss you,_ she had almost said. Almost.

"Ma'am?" the drivers voice came from outside. "We're here."

"Thank you, Silver," she said. She gave the books in her hand one last squeeze and gathered up her skirts. Silver held the carriage door open and helped her down.

"Should I wait here?" Silver asked. He shot a nervous glance at the figure standing on the bridge ahead and Mrs. St. James had to resist the urge to slap him. He had no right to act afraid. Not of her son. It hadn't been his fault. Instead, she smoothed her skirts and told him to remain on the side of the rode until she returned with her boy.

The bridge was a beautiful thing, like everything else in District 1. Arching marble, carved through with whimsical figures of birds and trees and dancers. The Lover's Bridge, it was called, and its name was well earned. Mrs. St. James knew Luxe had been here several times with that girl Gemma, had once caught him sneaking back inside the house at half past midnight. She had given him such a tongue lashing that he almost had the grace to look ashamed, except that her husband had kept winking at the boy and soon all three of them had dissolved into fits of giggles.

She thought she would find him here. She wasn't wrong. Mothers rarely are.

The boy was leaning on the rail, watching a family of ducks paddle around below. Tall for his sixteen years, still filling out. Golden hair, the mark of every child of District 1, flopping elegantly into his eyes.

The sun was glaring and for a moment Luxe dissolved and was replaced by the boy who had stood in the arena as the gong had sounded. The arena had been filled with rocks and boulders instead of sand this year, providing weapons and hiding places both. No other weapons had been provided. Mrs. St. James knew she had to watch. It was required. There were cameras. But she had hidden her face in a scrap of silk and refused to let any words coax her out until the trumpets had sounded four hours later. There had been a boy, standing on a rock, his hands and face and chest covered in blood, a gore-splattered rock in his hand. It was her boy. And she had been afraid.

The moment passed and the boy was standing on the bridge again, clean and handsome and hers.

_It wasn't his fault. And besides, he's nothing like the monster from last year. He only killed two._

"Luxe?" she said as she climbed the bridge, her skirts rustling. "Baby? It's Mama."

The boy didn't look at her. He stared at the river, a stone in one hand.

"It's almost time for dinner, sweetheart. We were getting worried. Cook has made all your favorites. Venison stew and roast beef and orange pudding. And even strawberry preserves for desert! It's been so long since we had strawberries."

The boy didn't move. He didn't even blink.

"Dad doesn't have to work late in the shop. Your brother is home too. Even Grandfather is here from the Capitol. They're very excited to see you."

Luxe turned his head towards her. His eyes looked her over, as if he couldn't quite focus on anything he was seeing. He noticed the sketchbooks and papers in her arms and he moved towards her, a sudden, involuntary start. Mrs. St. James seized the opportunity.

"I brought some of your old sketches. Remember these? I thought we could look through them together. I always loved this one. Opal said it made her look like a cow, and you said it was the subject material, not your skill. I swatted you for that, I remember."

She pulled out another one at random. "And this one, the fountain in the square, it almost looks like the water is flowing off the page." Too late she realized that the last thing Luxe needed was a reminder of the square where his name had been called, and she desperately pulled out something else.

"And here's the drawing you did of old Mrs. Melberthy before she passed, and the big oak tree in the front lawn, and here's…"

Her voice died away as she pulled out a picture of Gemma. She tried to stuff it somewhere away in one of the books but Luxe snatched it out of her hand. He stared at it for long minutes.

Mrs. St. James wished he would just cry. Just one tear. Two weeks ago her son would've wept unashamedly.

"Baby," she said as she gently pried the portrait away from him. "It wasn't your fault. None of this was your fault."

Luxe grunted. "It was," he said.

"No! No, it wasn't. The mayor talked to your father the night after you were picked. Your name wasn't even supposed to be in the bowl. It was a clerical error. You were never supposed to have to go to the Capitol. Baby, it wasn't your fault."

Luxe sighed. He gripped the stone in his hand until his knuckles were white.

"Did you watch the Games, Mama?"

"You did what you had to do." Her voice was harder than she intended, to hide the sob behind it. "You're a good boy. You're a St. James."

"I'm a Victor," he replied. "Killing people is all I'll ever be remembered for. For being a murderer."

"You are not-!"

"Aren't I, Mama?" Luxe turned to her and looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. His eyes were frightening. "The girl from Ten was just trying to hide. She wasn't even fighting. But there were only five of us left by then. And I had been in that arena for three bloody hours and all I could think about was how much I wanted to get out of there. She didn't even notice when I snuck up behind her. The rock left a dent in her head. It was strange. I thought she would bleed. She didn't even bleed."

She wanted to move, wanted to run down the bridge to the carriage and never look back. Her feet betrayed her and held her still.

"The boy from Seven though. He bled. When it was just the two of us. I had to hit him nine times before he stayed down. Three more than he hit me. I tore an ear off him. I remember it on the ground. I remember him screaming.! Just like I was screaming!"

His voice broke and he turned and hurled the stone into the river. The ducks quarked and screeched and rose in a panicked flight. Her son didn't even seem to see them.

"That's what they're going to remember me for. That's what they're going to celebrate every year for who knows how long. Look at Ahenobarbus. Look at the tours and the interviews and the television holiday special. That's what they're going to do to me, Mama. District One isn't going to care that I'm a St. James. Or a kid who wanted to come home. I will always be the first district Victor. The first celebrity murderer."

Mrs. St. James was quiet for a very long time. She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind the Victor's ear.

"I'll tell them all you're going to be a little late," she said. "Don't be here too long. Remember, there are strawberries."

She headed down the bridge, then turned and walked back. She lay the sketchbooks and papers down on the railing beside Luxe and returned to the carriage.

Silver was helping her inside when she heard the rustling of hundreds of pieces of paper. She didn't have to look back to imagine them tumbling into the river like so many falling leaves.


	4. Orchus

Orchus is the Victor everyone forgot.

There are still records of him, of course. All the Games are preserved on holodisks and filed away in the National Library. His statue is on the Avenue of Victors, towering over passerby along with all the others. His name was read every year on the very short list of Victors from his district when the Treaty of Treason was read before the Reaping. Other than that, there's very little evidence that he existed. No interviews. His Games were never played in any of the _Top Fifty Greatest Hunger Games Moments!_ specials that ran on Capitol television during the off-season between the Victory Tour and the Games. No one can remember him ever coming to the Capitol to mentor. He's just sort of there. A name, mentioned and then forgotten.

He came from District 11, that much is known. No one remembers who his family was, or if he even had one. A war orphan, perhaps. An abandoned child, as so many were during those days. By the time the Third Games came around people had started to realize that it was all real, that it wasn't going to end. The Capitol had eradicated the last pockets of resistance by then and the wall around the district was starting to go up. The very old, the very young, and the infirm starved as a bounty of food grew around them. Many parents, especially those with large families, abandoned their youngest to the Community Home. Or snuck out past the unfinished wall to the wilderness, returning alone. Perhaps Orchus was one of these. No one is really sure. He didn't even have a surname. But all the Capitol needed was a name to go into the reaping ball every year, so 'Orchus' was enough.

There are a couple of people in the district who still remember, however. Remember, and are willing to talk, for a price. Grove is one of these. Bring her a soft lime for her gums to chew on and a couple of hours of your time and you can get a few choice stories about the district she has spent nearly a century in.

"Orchus was a sweet boy. Simple-like, ya know? Didn't talk really. Grunted a bit, and pointed. Whistled, too. He had a clear, piercing whistle the mockin'jays would all copy."

She'll try and whistle then, to show you what she means. If you're lucky, nothing will happen. If you're not you may end up with a face splattered with lime juice.

"He worked in the orchards. Everyone did, ya know? Big boy like him, he'd carry the baskets o' fruit to the trucks, one in a hand, when it'd take two grown men just to lift one. Back then, the Peacekeepers weren't all that bad. Oh sure, some o' them were real nasty like, ones from the Capitol. But even back then, there be a lot from District 2 and elsewhere. Some o' them had fought on the side o' them rebels, now just trying to survive, ya know? They'd let him have a bit o' fruit at the end o' the day if he'd brought up them big barrels o' drinking water or booze they'd share. Boy ended up one o' the best fed in the district. No wonder he grew so large."

And he was large. His official Hunger Games profile, plastered on the betting boards in the casinos and luxury hovercrafts, is evidence enough.

ORCHUS: DISTRICT 11

AGE: 17

HEIGHT: 6'5

WEIGHT: 245 LBS

ODDS: 4-1

Grove claims Orchus was 'simple,' and he certainly doesn't seem to be much aware of what was happening around him during his Games. He was docile when he was reaped, marching up to where a Peacekeeper showed him to stand. The crowd reacted with confusion more than anything else since no one seemed to recognize the name.

For the previous years, the tributes had merely been stuck in cages beneath the arena before the Games the next day. But the clumsy and awkward battles of the first two Games had caused complaints. The crowd wanted to see more exciting tributes, not just one bloody beserker and one boy with a rock who got lucky. So a day of training was held, and the tributes were put up in a hotel in the meantime. Orchus didn't even leave the hotel to go to training. His escort forgot about him in favor of a party and never led him down.

The third Games were held in the same arena as the previous two. Those who could afford tickets to see it live again gathered watch the tributes fight under the hot summer sun. The Officiants of Games Pagaentry and Spectacle, who were quickly becoming known as simply 'the Gamemakers,' decided to liven things up for the easily bored crowd by including several booby traps in the arena, which this year took place in a massive field of wildflowers. It marked the first year that tributes died without being killed by an opponent. Two were sucked down by hidden quicksand. One was gored by a wild bull the Gamemakers released to break up the fight between the boys from 2, 5 and 9.

Orchus didn't even move from his plate. He didn't' seem to notice what was going on around him. He bent down a couple of times to pick a flower. One ended up stuck behind his ear. The crowd booed him at times, laughed at him at others, and then ignored him in favor of the more exciting tributes.

When the Games winded down to a particularly vicious girl from 4 and Orchus, the conclusion seemed inevitable. The girl had come out on top over an hour-long battle with the pair from 7, and she was the clear crowd favorite. Patrons were throwing her jewels and bottles of water and even healing ointments over the wall of the arena. The official video of the Games shows the moment she realizes her last target is the big, simple boy from 11. The smile on her face isn't evil, or malicious. It's pure relief. She's going home.

She snatched up her scythe, ran through the flowers, and leapt up onto the plate with the boy. Orchus appears to have been startled. Like a child who had a playmate encroach too close to his toys, he shoved the girl off, hard, before she could get her balance. She tumbled off the plate and the flowers beneath her collapsed, sending her down into a hidden pit lined with sharpened stakes.

A hundred thousand faces stared down at the boy in the arena in shock. Orchus picked another flower.

It's difficult to determine what happened after this. There are no surviving records of Orchus's Victory Ceremony or his Victory Tour. It's not known if they even happened, although Grove insists that the Tour at least did, with Orchus's mentor making the speeches for him. There are some clips of him together with the other Victors in the following years, dressed well but never talking. Not paying attention to what's around him, usually fiddling with something in his hands.

What we do know is that Orchus stopped coming to the Capitol after the first decade of the Games. Mags insisted that he was never there when she was, and her memory was arguably more reliable than Grove's. Orchus presumably stayed in his house in the newly built Victor's Village. The Capitol, it seems, was content to leave him alone, let Panem forget about the singularly embarrassing Victor who won the Games with a shove. It certainly didn't make for good television.

It took another decade for Orchus to come to the public spotlight again, when Wren Lessia won the Twentieth Hunger Games. Reporters rushed to his house to find out what he thought about 11's newest Victor, with stylists hot on their heels to make sure he was camera-ready.

The house was empty. It had been empty for years.

The discovery lead to several terminations, both of employment and otherwise. Victors are not supposed to just walk off and vanish. For a while there was a furor in the upper cabinets of the Capitol government to find out where he had gone. Several feared he had found the truth out about 13 and joined them. Others insisted he was hiding behind the wall in the wilderness. Still others wondered if maybe he had gotten married and was simply living with his family elsewhere in the huge district.

No one ever found him. Eventually, the story was put out that Orchus had suffered from a rare and fatal heart condition and passed away. The Capitol needn't have worried; the announcement was met with a general reaction of "Orchus who?" followed by an appointment for lip injections in the Capitol or slouching off to the next shift in the districts.

In the years that followed, memory of Orchus essentially passed away altogether except among a few elderly folk in his district and the most die-hard Hunger Games buffs in the Capitol. A Games trivia hologame had to be recalled at one point because they replaced Orchus with a non-existent district 2 Victor and the few fanboys who knew better complained. Once in a while, however, a rumor would fly around that Orchus was still alive somewhere. He was in District 4, some said, in a cottage by the sea. Or he was in the Capitol, the subject of some experiment. Such rumors were like tinder. They burned bright for a short time and then they burned out.

A running joke eventually grew in District 11, concerning old folks who would try to trick their grandchildren into believing that they were the lost Victor. Most such claims were jest, although a few adamantly insisted. Usually it was those who had grown old enough to fall into dementia, or those who didn't know when a joke was so old it wasn't funny anymore.

Interviews and research indicates that one such fellow lived in a shack near one of the villages that managed the orange groves. He would entertain the children when their parents were working long shifts with stories of how he had gone to the Capitol many years ago, and won a Game with just his two hands.

"My daughter loved that old man's stories," said a former orchard worker in an interview. "She would come back with all sorts of tales from him that her Ma and I would have to calm her down about. She was devastated when I told her that her friend couldn't be a Victor. Orchus died years and years ago, I said, and anyway folk who remember say he couldn't talk anyway."

Whether there is more to the man's claims will never be known, as neither he nor the girl remain to give information. The girl was reaped at the age of twelve for the Seventy Forth Hunger Games and died after allying with the Victor who eventually became the Mockingjay.

The old man was executed six months after during the Victory Tour for Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. He was killed for whistling a four-note tune, and raising three fingers in a salute.

The whistle was clear and piercing, and even as the gun rang out, the mockingjays were singing.


	5. Wheaton

They showed the moment over and over again on televisions throughout Panem.

The commentators were baffled. Reactions ranged from shock, to laughter, to mockery, to pity. Even the previous Victors, or rather the two who were fit to be seen on camera, expressed surprise.

The process of volunteering had been written out in the Hunger Games manifestos and guidelines. It was even mentioned in the Treaty of Treason. Still, said the sports analyzer on CGN (Capitol Games Network) as he shook his cerulean hair, no one expected someone to actually _do_ it.

And his assembled panel of sports experts, celebrity pundits, and an assistant Gamemaker all agreed and laughed and made witty one-liners before playing the clip again.

_The summer breeze ripples through the wheat and barley fields in Panem's largest district. The town center of District 9 isn't really a town, and it really isn't the center of anything. Rather, it's a disused field still barren from the chemical bombs dropped on the processing centers during the uprisings. Crumbling silos ring two sides, next to the brand shiny new Justice Building and the half-finished shops and administrative centers being built for the newly imported merchant class. Other than that, there isn't much beyond the golden fields and crystal blue skies. The population of 9 is scattered throughout the massive district in small villages and hamlets. Preliminary reapings are held a month before to determine which individuals have to make the often days-long journey to the Justice Building for Reaping Day._

_The five hundred unlucky individuals clustered around the stage try to hide their tears and pale faces. Their parents and families stand rigid just behind them as the mayor reads the Treaty of Treason and introduces the mentor for the tributes and their escort. The Capitol escort says something unintentionally insulting in a trilling voice before she goes to the bowls and pulls the names. A few minutes later, a fourteen year old girl and fifteen year old boy are up in their starched and stained reaping clothes. The girl is openly crying. The boy is biting his lower lip and not making eye contact with his screaming mother. The escort leads the spattered applause and mutters something about volunteers before motioning the tributes to follow her into the Justice Building._

_And then the voice calls._

"_I volunteer to be tribute!"_

_Heads turn. A few gasps. Confusion on the stage. A boy walks out of the crowd. Big, built. Handsome as well. Whoever's behind the camera focuses on the stubble on his square jaw, his bright green eyes, his broad shoulders. He wasn't even in the clustered crowd of children. He was walking towards the stage before volunteers were even called for._

_The mayor looks stunned, the escort simultaneously confused and ecstatic. The cameraman doesn't know whose reaction to focus on longest, but he picks up the mentor for a few seconds. He sits in his chair on the stage, frozen, all blood drained from his face._

"_Hello, handsome!" says the escort. "Come right up here and – what are you still doing here?" she asks the boy whose name was originally chosen. He jumps, finally stunned out of the shock and runs down the stairs to his mother's arms. The escort clears her throat and asks the older boy for his name._

"_Wheaton Vale. Eighteen. Tribute for District Nine."_

_Now the cameras swerve on the mentor sitting a few feet away, focusing in on the fear and grief in the man's identical green eyes. They only get a few seconds of footage before Wheaton Vale and his district partner are swept into the Justice Building along with the mayor and mentor._

The clip ended.

"Maybe he has a girl in the Capitol," suggested one pundit. Maybe he's eager for fame. Maybe he has a man-crush on Ahenobarbus. Maybe he just has a death wish.

Laughter in the studios. Jokes on the television screen. Toasts in the bars and clubs and eager betting in the streets.

But for Wheaton Vale, the Games were no laughing matter. They were the ultimate gamble. Wheaton had volunteered to save his father's life. His father, and his mentor.

The original drafters of the Games had planned for the Victors to mentor the tributes in future Games, but obviously this caused an unfair disadvantage for those districts with no Victor. So the Gamemakers found individuals in each district with combat experience, knowledge of the other districts and the Capitol, and the necessary motivation. Rebel prisoners-of-war. The real leaders of the rebellion had all been killed in combat or summarily executed. What was left were petty agitators, low-rank officers, and people with skills the Capitol could still make use of. The twelve chosen rebels were released from prison for one month a year to mentor the Games. Mentoring a winning tribute would result in their full pardon. Another token of the Capitol's mercy and generosity.

Barley Vale was one of these. He had been the captain of a small unit that held the train station until being overwhelmed by District 2 forces. He had lost every soldier in his command. He had lost his wife to the chemical bombs. He was certain he was about to lose his son to the Fourth Annual Hunger Games.

Wheaton Vale had other ideas.

Even as he was climbing into the train, Wheaton winked and smiled at the Capitol cameras. He knew he was good looking. Enough farmers' daughters and tavern maids had told him so. He could use that, he thought. The escort was half in love with him before they even pulled out of the district.

The tributes were again boarded in a hotel both before and after their day of training. Wheaton made sure to strip down to the basics as he swung swords, threw spears, and wrestled, knowing there were probably cameras in the gymnasium as well. Sure enough, by the time the sun was at high noon on the day before the Games, every news station and Games pundit was screaming for an interview for the 'smoking hot, delicious, sexy _volunteer!'_ The Gamemakers flatly refused, saying it wasn't fair to interview one without interviewing all. The reporters agreed and called for all the tributes to be brought out. It took an offhand comment from the First Lady that she'd love to hear Wheaton's side of the story before the Gamemakers brought in designers from Panem's best fashion houses, dressed up the baffled tributes and hauled them to the CGN studios for brief interviews.

Fortunately, Barley Vale managed to find time to tell Wheaton that volunteering to save his rebel father from prison wasn't a wise thing to mention on national television. Wheaton made up a cover story about wanting to see the place his mother was born in and winning enough cash to buy his own gymnasium. The Capitol loved it.

Despite his good looks, despite being the first volunteer as well as the first tribute to ever appeal to the Capitol's baser instincts, Wheaton almost lost the Games before he had begun to fight. The arena that year was crisscrossed with low stone walls. Stairs and ladders allowed tributes to wind their way through the arena as the crowd cheered them on. Wheaton was one of the few who ran directly towards the pile of weapons when the gong sounded. He managed to get a hold of a spear before being jumped by the boys from 1, 2, and 7. Determined to eliminate the boy they saw as the biggest threat, they joined forces and attacked Wheaton simultaneously. The boy from 9 earned a dagger in his thigh and a deep cut across his back before a surge of adrenaline managed to carry him over the first wall.

A game of cat and mouse ensued. Wheaton would have almost certainly have been overcome if the alliance hadn't slowed down to eliminate other competition before taking up the chase again. Wheaton unintentionally killed the girl from 3 when he shoved her off a wall in his desperate flight. Wounded and armed with an unfamiliar weapon, he would have stood no chance if it weren't for the new twist the Fourth Hunger Games introduced.

The Gamemakers had put a halt to Capitol spectators in the stands dropping water and supplies into the arena. Now, the lowest viewing boxes were reserved for those who paid a fee to support a particular tribute. The fee got them into the box. Additional money could buy water or bandages or even weapons, provided that the tribute could find his or her way to the space under the right box. It took Wheaton two hours, but he finally stumbled to the sand beneath the box marked 9M. His patrons managed to send down water, energy bars, and bandages before his pursuers found him. Nearly two dozen Capitolians threw fistfuls of cash at the vendor before they had enough combined to throw down a scythe.

Armed with a weapon he had used for half his life, Wheaton had the advantage. The battle lasted twenty-seven bloody minutes, and ended with Wheaton standing above three corpses, minus half an ear and with a wound that would cost him a kidney, but alive.

All he had to do was wait for the boy from 4 to finish off his district partner before succumbing to his own wounds. The trumpets sounded.

Interview followed party followed interview. Everyone who clustered in the 9M box was personally invited to the Victory banquet. Wheaton spent the night looking for his father, but the Head Gamemaker advised him that Barley was already back in 9, a full pardon was being drafted, and that Wheaton should just enjoy himself.

On his return to 9, Wheaton received a hero's welcome. Later that day, he was awarded the keys to his new house in the Victor's Village.

The next day he received a letter informing him that his father had been fully pardoned for his crimes of sedition, but that he had been executed for crimes committed during said sedition, including burglary, sabotage, and espionage.

_Happy Hunger Games, and Congratulations on your Victory,_ said the letter.

_Sincerely, President Lucius._

_And may the odds continue to be in your favor._


	6. Platinum

_Well,_ thought Platinum as the platform lifted into place and locked him on his pedestal. _They've certainly outdone themselves this year._

Water lapped around the feet of the boy from District 1. The cheers rang out around him. The other tributes were being lifted out of their own tubes from the catacombs beneath the arena. Platinum could see the looks of fear on all their faces and quickly rearranged his face into a similar expression. It wouldn't do to have him look too eager and prepared, not when he took such care to present himself as a complete idiot.

It was the same arena as always of course, but the Gamemakers had gone all out for the Fifth Hunger Games and flooded it. Wooden walkways floated on the sparkling blue water, creating a sort of maze with water and wood instead of green hedges like the one in the park in the center of District 1. Some of the tributes had been launched next to the walkways. Others were further out. The weapons were, as usual, placed in the center of the arena, but this year the pile was tiny.

Platinum looked along the edges of the arena until he saw the private box with 1M glowing above it. People were frantically waving at him from the gilded and shaded contraption. His patrons, as they were beginning to be called. They were eager to see him fight. They wanted to see him win. They were pretty much the only ones, besides his few fighting buddies from the Community Home.

President Lucius was standing, giving the same speech he had the previous four years. Time was running out. What was he supposed to do? He could stay on his platform and let the weaker tributes weed themselves out. He'd be safe for a while, it was unlikely that many of the other tributes could swim. Or he could launch himself into the water and swim for it, hoping he'd be one of the first to make it to the weapons. If he went, he'd risk getting caught in a battle right from the start. If he waited, he'd have no chance of getting a weapon and would have to make his way to his patron box and hope that his Capitol fans had enough cash to send him something useful.

The President was raising the handkerchief. He was running out of time. As the scrap of red silk fluttered down to the water, Platinum's thoughts went inexplicably to his mentor.

Not that Luxe had been much help. From the moment the names had been pulled from the reaping bowl, everything had been about Ruby. What Ruby should wear for the interviews at CGN. What weapon Ruby should focus on during training. Visits to important Capitol ministers with free tickets to watch the Games from Ruby's box. Platinum had grown to hate the pretty little twit half-an-hour into the train ride, and even as the clock was counting down he had to push down a surge of anger at the way his mentor had fawned over his district partner.

Luxe would stay on his plate and let the Games play out. That's how he had won his own Games. By keeping out of sight until there were only a few left. Above all, Platinum resolved to not be like his simpering, useless mentor. So when the gong sounded, he dove into the water and swam for his life as the crowd above him cheered.

He cut through the water in broad clean strokes. Swimming was always something he was good at. He had been sneaking down to the river with some of the other war orphans from the Community Home since he was old enough to be reaped. In the space of a few seconds he reached the nearest floating walkway and started pulling himself up.

Something massive rocked the walkway even as the water streamed off him. Platinum stumbled and fell, clinging to the wood. He held on, barely. To his left, a shrill scream echoed through the arena before being cut off in a desperate gurgle. Platinum told himself not to look, to focus on his goal, but his eyes moved of their own accord to where a pool of blood was blossoming across the water like the delicate orchids in the parks back home. The pistol shot rang out. A dark shape glided through the water, searching for a new target.

_Mutts_ he thought as he fought a bizarre urge to laugh. The Gamemakers really had outdone themselves.

Platinum was officially out of time. A brief glance confirmed that many of the tributes had stayed on their plates, unable to swim and terrified of the water around them, but several tributes had already reached the walkways, or had been launched near enough one to simply jump or paddle to it. These tributes were running as fast as they could to the large platform where all the walkways intersected. Platinum sprinted off, racing for the pile of weapons, knowing he wouldn't be the first to get there but hoping there would still be something left of worth.

Luck was with him. Platinum stumbled, fell, and just managed to grasp his fingers around a sword when the boy from 4 attacked him with a mace. A split second reaction saved Platinum from getting his head smashed to a pulp, but the mace dug deep into his bicep. His scream echoed so loud that some Capitol ladies pretended to swoon so their significant others could revive them with smelling salts and champagne.

It was his left bicep, however, and Platinum was right handed. The boy from 4 tore his mace out and lifted it up to deliver the final blow. Platinum reacted with blinding speed. That speed had saved him when his parents were shredded to bits by a rebel terrorist bomb, it had earned him the respect of the more oafish bullies in the community home, and now it plunged the sword through the heart of the fisher boy. His enemy gave a small sigh of surprise as he toppled into the water. The pistol went off.

Platinum stared at the bobbing corpse for long seconds, frozen in his disbelief. _I killed someone. I just bloody killed that boy._

His distraction nearly cost him his life, but he was able to get his sword up just in time to block the ax wielded by the girl from 7. She stared at him with hard eyes, taking in his injured arm. She attacked aggressively, each blow sending a shock through Platinum's body. His arm felt like someone was holding a hot firebrand to it. He bit his lip and shoved down the pain. It was time to see if his strategy was worth anything.

Platinum parried her blows clumsily, lulling her into a false sense of security. The girl responded as Platinum knew she would, swinging her ax at his neck, his sides, his legs. No doubt she had recognized the boy from 1 and was remembering the oafish lout who kept dropping his blade and cracking dumb jokes during training day. She was skilled, no doubt, but left her side open again and again, clearly not suspecting that her slender opponent knew anything about swordplay.

It was a mistake that cost her the Games.

Ever since the first Hunger Games when Platinum was twelve, he and some of the other boys had practiced playing at swords. They used sticks or broken broom handles, but over several years of horseplay and bruises, Platinum had learned how to augment his natural agility to fighting. A couple of Peacekeepers had given them private lessons in an alley behind the Community Home, taking bets on which orphan would come out on top. Platinum had used the lessons to keep his daily bread safe from bigger boys and girls. Now, as the girl from the lumber district spun out and opened her side, Platinum dove in and trust the sword into her chest. She screamed, loud and long before her shredded lungs ran out of air.

A shot fired, and then another. Platinum spun around, but his only opponent was the large boy from 2. The male tribute from 7 lay at his feet. The boy, a man really, looked at Platinum's bleeding arm, and then down at the deep cut in his own side.

"I could use a break," he said. "Patron box first?"

"Deal," said Platinum, trying not to let the pain seep into his voice.

The man nodded and sprinted off towards the edge of the arena. Platinum spun around desperately until he found his own patron box again and ran for it. The quickest way was through an expanse of water, but there was no way Platinum would be able to outswim mutts with his arm in its condition. So he threaded away across the walkways. He met no one else. There were only a few survivors left on the maze, most of the others were still on their pedestals in the water.

Platinum reached his patrons just as shrieks echoed around the arena. He gratefully gulped down a bottle of energy drink and watched the pedestals sink back down into the water. The tributes still left on them were set adrift, struggling to stay afloot. Platinum ate several candy bars and a chicken and bacon sandwich as five shots rang out, tributes who either drowned or were torn apart by the marine mutts. He drank a vial of something loathsome that numbed the pain in his arm and was just wrapping bandages around the wound to staunch the bleeding when his district partner cornered him on the walkway.

Ruby smiled at him, her hair still perfect, a sword in her hand.

"Looks like you had a bit of trouble along the way, Plat."

Platinum bared his teeth. "I held my own. Looks like you haven't had trouble at all. Where'd you get the sword?"

Ruby spun the blade around, her namesake gems flashing on the hilt. "My patrons are very generous. Luxe has been quite devoted."

"I'm sure he has been," said Platinum, thinking of all the private strategy sessions Ruby and their mentor had gone off to have on the train ride to the Capitol. "So he got you a pretty blade. Can you use it?"

Ruby brushed a strand of loose hair from her face. "My dad was an officer in the Panem Loyalist Militia. I've had a few lessons. More than a Community home rat would, at any rate."

Platinum almost smiled. "Why don't we test that?" he asked and launched himself at the girl.

The crowd screamed and roared. This was what they had wanted to see. This was the action they craved. Two tributes, each skilled with their weapon, battling to the death in a spectacular show. Even better, they were from the same district, and to top it all off, they clearly hated each other. The girl was quick, steady, and confident. The boy held her off with only one hand, allowing himself to be driven back, but blocking her offense with blinding speed. No one could quite determine when the balance of the battle shifted, but it became evident when the girl started yelling obscenities, then screaming in rage and fear, then begging for her life before she toppled into the water.

Platinum wiped the blood of his blade and raised in in a salute towards the Victors' Box. His eyes focused on his mentor sitting between Ahenobarbus and the strange boy from 11. Even at this distance, he could see all the blood drain from Luxe's face. Platinum smiled.

He didn't have to face the man from 2 in the end. The male tribute from 3 somehow managed to set part of walkway on fire, killing both the man from 2 and another tribute. Unfortunately for him, Platinum was at the opposite end of the arena. Platinum's final kill was his easiest, and the trumpets sounded the end of what was quickly acclaimed as the most exciting Games yet.

There's a certain camaraderie one inherits from winning the Games, one that often surpasses anything that may have happened after the gong sounds. It took a slew of bruises and more than one emotional breakdown, but as the train rolled into the station of District 1, Luxe and Platinum had forged something that Mags would later refer to as the most passive-aggressive friendship in the history of the nation.


	7. Tiberius

"Get your sword up! Up! Damn it!"

I flinch and raise my sword but it's not enough. The practice blade comes down and bites into my shoulder. It's not sharpened so it doesn't break the skin, but the blunt edge hits the bruises I earned two days ago. I let out a yelp that echoes through the basement. I don't drop my blade. It's a close thing, but I don't. There are some things that Ahenobarbus's fists teach better than words.

I still earn a cuff on the ear. "Idiot," our district's only Victor growls. "When I say raise your sword, I mean now, not when you feel like it. You're dead."

"It was only my arm," I mutter. It earns me another blow.

"Your arm has been sliced off. You've bled to death in the time it took you to mouth off to me. Sit down. I don't want to hear the sound of your voice until I feel better about you."

Gaius is smirking at me as he wipes the sweat off his face with a towel. He's got a good twenty pounds on me, he's been training for a year longer and of the five of us he's Ahenobarbus's personal favorite. I sometimes dream that we go into the Hunger Games together, even though only one male from each district is reaped. It's impossible, but the daydream of wiping the sneer off Gaius's face with an ax is one I indulge in pretty frequently.

I sit down on one of the benches that lines the walls. Minny squeezes my shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, Ty. Next time, you'll beat him."

I shrug and give a small grunt, knowing that if Ahenobarbus hears my voice, I'll earn more than just bruises.

"Vesta. You're up. Ax."

"Ax? Again? It's been ax for two weeks."

"You don't know what you're going to end up with in the arena. You're fairly decent enough with a sword, but you're too clumsy with an ax. You don't have the shoulders to properly wield a mace, so if that's all they give you run to your patron box and beg for anything else. Now you want to complain some more? Or are you going to earn your place here?"

Vesta knows better than to argue, and the tall girl does a couple of stretches before stepping into the chalk circle drawn on the concrete floor, practice ax in hand.

"Go," Ahenobarbus grunts.

It's not much of a match. Even after two weeks, Vesta is still clumsy with the heavy battle ax. She holds her own for a couple minutes, and then Gaius locks the blade of his sword around the shaft and gives a twist. The ax goes spinning until it hits the far wall. Vesta grabs her wrist and hisses in pain.

"Pathetic," says Ahenobarbus. "Absolutely pathetic."

Vesta doesn't have to be told to go sit down. She slumps off to her bench.

"You are an embarrassment, the lot of you," the Victor growls. "District One now has two Victors. Pretty-boy St. James and a gutter rat who was a better fighter than any of you, except maybe Gaius. The reaping is in a week. I will not have District 2 be embarrassed again by losing to some no-name out district son of a bitch! Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," we chime.

"Good. I'm not feeding you out of the goodness of my heart. If I suspect any one of you isn't giving this your full commitment and dedication, I'll send you back to the quarries and slum houses you came from. With a couple broken legs as incentive for the others."

"Yes, sir."

A chill runs down my spine. I sleep under a bridge at night, wander the district during the hours I'm not stuck in Ahenobarbus's basement. This is all I have going for me. The quarries won't hire me, they're too afraid to associate with the son of a dead rebel officer. The Peacekeepers would probably just execute me for sedition if I approached them. This is my one chance. To make something of myself.

I'm not the only one, though. There are five of us in this drafty cellar that Ahenobarbus has converted into a sort of mock-up gymnasium like they have in the Capitol. Gaius was wanted by the Peacekeepers for rape and theft before the Victor bribed them enough to hand him over for training. Vesta came from the brothel, until she killed one of her clients. Marble, the fourteen year old sitting in the corner, is a slum rat with a nasty temper and a natural talent for knife fighting.

No one knows where Minnie came from. Ahenobarbus just showed up one day with her in tow and neither has ever offered an explanation.

"Minerva. Tiberius. You're up. Swords, both of you."

Minnie and I don't look at each other. We each pick up a practice blade and step into the ring. I give mine a few flourishes, feeling the familiar reassuring weight in my hand. Minnie merely takes a defensive stance. That's just her way. She lulls her opponents into a false sense of security, never seeming dangerous until her enemy is worn down and starts making mistakes.

I decide to not give her the chance. I launch myself at her as soon as Ahenobarbus gives the signal. I drive Minnie back with a pattern dance designed to force her to expend more energy to ward off my blows. It costs me, but I have more strength and stamina than she does. As long as I don't make a single mistake, she'll wear down before I do.

My gambit pays off. I lean to the right, tricking Minnie into anticipating a blow from that side. I pivot on my heel and strike from the left. The unexpected change in direction takes Minnie off guard. She manages to block the blow, but my second pass disarms her. In half a second the pattern dance brings my blade up to her neck. I stop the dance just in time so the cold metal barely kisses her skin.

"Minerva. You're dead. Tiberius. You're dead."

"What?!" I exclaim. "But I beat her. I won the bout!"

Ahenobarbus's hand reaches out and I'm slammed into the wall. "What did I say about talking? You're dead because you showed mercy. There is no mercy in the Hunger Games, understand? There are no friends. Allies are only future targets. You show mercy, you're dead. Even Wheaton knew that, you stupid fool. You really expect to be reaped in a week when you can't even understand the basic point of the Games? Get out of my sight. Don't let me catch you back here until you're ready to act like a proper District Two tribute."

Gaius laughs outright. Ahenobarbus releases me and I slink off, throwing my sword against the wall. Everyone ignores it.

"Shower up, all of you. Dinner is in thirty."

Despite my anger and humiliation, my stomach growls at the word 'dinner.' My fellow trainees put away their weapons and toss their sweaty towels into a pile for the Avoxes to clean up. Ahenobarbus had two shower rooms installed as part of his little gymnasium, and I march into the boys' room before the others. I strip down and blast the water as hot as it will go as Gaius and Marble walk in. I ignore them, even as Gaius talks loudly about all the things he's going to do with his prize money when he wins.

"Hey Ty, maybe I'll even visit you under your bridge after I win. I'll bring you some crusts and peels to eat. It'll be a feast for you, I expect."

He laughs, and Marble dutifully joins in. I bite my lip and don't respond. It would just devolve into another fight and I'd lose. Again.

I finish my shower before the others and pull a black tunic and trousers from the bin outside the shower room. Normally we wear our street clothes when we eat, but Ahenobarbus demands that we look presentable when he has guests for dinner as he does nearly once a week. I don't complain like a couple of the others. The clothes are warmer than the rags I usually wear, and I get to keep them until I come back the next day. The nights under the bridge are slightly more bearable on feast nights.

Walking up from the dank, sweaty, smelly basement up into Ahenobarbus's house is like stepping into another world. The Capitol built a number of houses just outside the main town that only Victors get to live in. Ahenobarbus is the only one here, of course, but his house is almost never empty. The whole place smells like some sort of perfume, gold and silver decorations are everywhere, a massive portrait of him standing over the bodies of two of the tributes he killed hangs in the parlor. Everything is sleek and shiny and really, really clean.

Ahenobarbus holds a feast at least once a week, but this one is even larger than normal. The five trainees have our own table at the far end of the dining room. We eat dinner here every day after training, not because Ahenobarbus cares about us, but because he says we have to build up muscle if we're going to win the Games. I'm sure it's technically illegal, but no one seems to care.

There are almost thirty people seated at the large mahogany table. The mayor, the Capitol liaisons, whores, a couple of foremen from the quarries, the Head Peacekeeper, even a couple of television celebrities from the Capitol. I remember them from some of the propaganda films that played every day during the rebellion when I was a kid.

The feast is loud and boisterous as everyone gets drunk. Two Avoxes bring out all the food, and another pours the booze. I remember hearing that they were a gift from President Lucius after Ahenobarbus won the Games. The Victor doesn't allow us to drink, he says our minds need to stay clear and focused at all times. But Gaius isn't seated with the rest of us today. He's up at the head table, laughing and drinking with the others. Ahenobarbus has one arm around his shoulders. He's talking to a man who's clearly from the Capitol. It takes me a moment to recognize him. The Games liaison. The one who oversees the stage and decorations and camera crews. He also makes sure everyone's name is properly represented in the reaping bowl.

I grimace and stab a fork into my roast pork. The Games liaison is the one Ahenobarbus has bribed to make sure one of us is picked on reaping day. Gaius and I are the only two eighteen year olds. In a week, one of us will go to the Capitol and the other will end up on the streets. Watching Gaius laugh and shake hands with the liaison, it's clear whose name will be the only one put into the reaping bowl.

Minnie seems to sense my mood and grips my hand under the table. The gesture seems to set me off. I slap my napkin down, push myself away from the table, and rise.

"Ty, are you okay?"

"Yes," I mutter.

"Do you want company?"

"No." I sigh and give her shoulder a squeeze. "I just need to be alone for a bit."

No one at the head table even glances my way as I leave the room. Not that I care.

A cool breeze is blowing through District 2 as I walk out of the Victors Village and into the main town. The acrid smell of the mines and quarries seems to permeate everything, even though no one really notices after a lifetime trapped in this hellhole. The mountain fortress looms above us. You hear all sorts of stories about that place. Supposedly it's just the center for Capitol defense. It was the headquarters of the entire war effort, everyone knows that. But rumor says even more goes on there. Experiments. Training. Supposedly there's even a prison where captured rebels are still being held. Some of the other street kids who have gotten close claim they've heard the screams echoing from deep within the mountain.

For some reason, my current mood pulls me towards the massive peak that blocks off a third of the sky. I lose myself in the long shadow, my angry thoughts churning around in my brain like a slum-wife's stew. I walk around the winding road on the base of the mountain, trying not to think of Gaius, or Ahenobarbus, or Minnie, or the bridge. I stop a couple times to see if I can hear any screams, but there's only the moan of the wind.

"What are you doing out here?"

A Peacekeeper is walking towards me, gun raised and pointed. I raise my hands up.

"This is a restricted area. What are you doing here?"

"Just taking a walk, officer," I say, keeping my head down. Perfect, just what I need. Shot before the reaping even happens. "Just needed to clear my head."

"You come from the school?"

"Came from the Victors Village. Ahenobarbus's place."

There's a pause, and when I look up there's a flicker of understanding in the Peacekeeper's eyes. "Well then, you march right back down there and don't let me catch you up this way again. Otherwise I'll take you back myself and let him know why."

"Yes sir," I say. I don't need a dismissal. I turn on my heels and race back down to the town.

I'm out of breath when I reach the alley between a warehouse and the iron smelting plant. I lean against the wall, willing my heartbeat to return to normal, when I hear the voices coming from around the corner.

"Once I'm a Victor, you won't have to hang around slime like him anymore. I'll take care of you in my house, any time you want."

Gaius. Cornering some quarry girl no doubt. I curl my lip in disgust and head in the opposite direction when I hear the second voice.

"Go away, Gaius. I wouldn't spend the night at your house if it were a choice between you or an aqua mutt."

"Now, is that anyway to talk to a Victor? You can't tell me that you find the bridge rat more appealing."

"I would find the Head Peacekeeper's hound more appealing."

There's a thump and a cry of pain and before I realize my legs are carrying me towards the voices. I turn the corner. Gaius is pressing Minnie against the wall of the smelting plant, his body pressed against hers. Her fingers are searching for something to pinch.

"Leave her alone!" I yell. My voice cracks.

Gaius glances at me and grins. "Oh look, the half-wit hobo has come to your rescue. I think I'll break his legs and make him watch me take you."

My fingers cletch into fists and the sky goes red. "Let. Her. Go."

Gaius shoves Minnie away from him. "I'll come back for you, slut."

"Get out of here, Minnie."

Her eyes dart between Gaius and me. "Ty, I think-"

"Minnie? Leave. _Now._"

For what must be the first time in our friendship, she listens to me and darts off into the darkening street.

Gaius stretches his arms. "I think you'll be good practice for the Games. I've been wanting to put you in a coma for a long time now, but I thought I'd have to wait till I won to do it."

"Ahenobarbus isn't here to be your cheerleader, Gaius. Just you and me now."

"Ahenobarbus told me he was tempted to put you in the Games just so he could bet on how long you'd last."

"Where did he tell you that? His bedchamber?"

The taunt has the desired effect. Gaius gives a snarl of rage and launches himself at me. I dodge him and he hits the wall. I'm on him before he can turn, pummeling his face, his chest, anywhere I can reach.

It's not enough. There's a reason Gaius is Ahenobarbus's favorite. He blocks my blows and returns with his own. He's so fast. I double over in the street, hurling my dinner onto the dusty road. He's on top of me before I know it, slamming his fist into my face. I feel my nose break. I strike out wildly, and with sheer luck land a blow on his cheek. He spits out a broken tooth as I try to staunch the blood flow.

"You'll pay for that, rat," he snarls as he spits out a wad of blood.

His hands are at my throat, pressing me down into the dirt. My vision goes cloudy. I'm on my knees, my fingers grasping at his hands, tearing his skin open but he doesn't seem to notice.

"After I end this," he whispers. "I'm going to find your little friend, take her back to the Village, break into one of the houses where no one can hear the screaming, and-"

He never gets to finish. I put all my strength into a thrust that sends me back to my feet. Gaius pushes me back down. When I stomp on his foot, his own strength is behind it. I feel the bones break.

Gaius gives a howl of pain and I throw him off in his moment of distraction. He comes back at me but I hit his foot again and he collapses with a whimper. I'm on his back now, my arm around his neck, tugging. He's spitting, swearing, fighting, but I've never felt so strong in my life. My vision is red, and somewhere inside me a voice is telling me that it's enough, it's enough. It sounds like Minnie's voice.

"No, this is enough," I mutter, and with a wrench Gaius's neck breaks.

I stand. Brush the dirt from my shoulders. Look down at the man I just killed.

I am afraid.

Afraid until the deep voice comes echoing out of the darkness.

"Tiberius."

I look up. Ahenobarbus is standing on the roof of the warehouse, looking down at me, his arms folded.

He gives a small smile.

"You'll do."

He walks away, leaving me alone in the dark.


	8. Jules

Johanna:

Augustine Pine, the famed anchor of the old CGN channel is holding Tiberius's hand up in the air at the Victory Ceremony. The boy from 2 has a slightly insane look in his eyes, but he's whooping and hollering at the cameras. Some stylist dressed him in white with red dye artistically splashed on, a reminder of how Tiberius looked after he stepped out of the arena at the end of the Sixth Hunger Games.

"Turn it off," mutters Peeta. "I think we've seen enough."

Beetee dutifully raises the control and the screen goes blank.

"That….that was bad," Peeta mutters, holding his head in his hands.

I keep from rolling my eyes, but it's a close thing. "Mellark, you're one of six people in the world who went through two different Hunger Games, and you're telling me that you can't handle a few old recordings?"

"Johanna," says Beetee, a rare sharpness tinging his voice. He nods towards Peeta. The kid is still holding his head in his hands, and those hands are shaking. A small groan escapes his lips and he bites down, his skin resembling the bark of an ash tree.

"Should we call someone?" asks Connor from my other side. "One of the librarians? A doctor? Katniss?"

"Wait," says Beetee. "It might pass."

It doesn't. Peeta's legs begin shaking. Beetee finally stands and turns towards the door. Now I do roll my eyes.

"For Panem's sake, let me handle this."

I stand up and walk over to the leather armchair Peeta is sitting in. I kneel down in front of him, take his arms in my hands, and push him back.

"Hey. Mellark. It's Johanna. Snap out of it." I snap my fingers in front of his unfocused eyes for effect.

"Johanna, I don't think that's the best way to-"

"Cinna's costumes. Katniss in her wedding dress. Mags making fishhooks. The cake you baked for Finnick and Annie. C'mon Mellark, you know what's real and what's not by now. Focus."

"I don't know if-"

"Katniss just called, she's leaving you for Hawthorne and she's moving to District Two."

That gets his attention. Peeta gives a yelp and looks around wildly, saying Katniss's name over and over again before collapsing into the chair while sucking in deep gulps of air.

"Johanna!" Beetee is towering over me while Connor looks all aghast behind him. "That was extremely dangerous! You could have caused long term damage. Why would you bring up such a sensitive-"

"It worked, didn't it?"

"It's okay, Beetee," Peeta says. "It's okay. She's right. I was being stupid."

Beetee gives us both a glare, then marches over to a panel on the wall and says something indiscriminate. Connor doesn't know whether to sit down or stand up and hovers above his armchair somewhere in between. He looks like he's constipated. Enobaria ignores the whole thing.

"Thanks Johanna," says Peeta, giving me a small smile.

I shrug my shoulders. "Hey, we all have our triggers, Bread-boy. You helped me, I helped you, we're even."

'Helped' is an understatement. I spent the entire recording of the Fifth Games in a state of panic, the flooded arena sending me into flashbacks. My nerves felt like they were burning again. Doctor Aurelius says the physical response to the mental stimulus will probably exist in some form forever. I ended curled up in Peeta's arms, sobbing into his shoulder as he tried to coax some tea into me. For the first time in my life, I found myself in the unfortunate position of being slightly jealous of Katniss the Edible Root.

There's a knock on the door and an Avox enters. Former Avox. They've all been freed, although many have continued in their service positions now that they're being compensated. She carries a tray of beverages. Hot tea for me. Cocoa for Peeta. Soda water with a lime for Beetee. A scotch on the rocks for Connor. A tall glass of blood for Enobaria.

She sees the look on my face and grins. "It's tomato juice, Mason. Want some?"

"Pass," I say. "So who's next?"

We've spent the entire day in this elegant viewing room, one of many in the National Library. It's a beautiful place, paneled in mahogany from home, lined with shelves filled with old books and ancient looking relics. The massive viewing screen set up on the far wall is atrociously out of place. Circe, whose talent was interior design, would have pitched a fit.

"I think we've had enough for today," says Beetee, giving Peeta another look.

Bread-boy shakes his head. "One more. I think we have time for one more. Let's just get it out of the way."

Connor pulls a disc out of the box the librarian provided. He looks at the name and gives a small grin. "Jules Elmer. District Seven."

Peeta cocks his head. "I don't remember ever hearing about him."

"He was the oldest living Victor," says Beetee. "Until the Purge. I've known him for what seems like my whole life. Always brought me a jar of maple syrup. A good man. Decent."

"Katniss once said that no one decent ever won the Games," says Peeta, a distant look in his eyes.

I snort. "Well she never met Jules, so she can't really talk. Just put the disc in, Connor."

Connor slides the disc into the viewing screen and the lights go dark again. Peeta opens his notepad and Beetee starts typing away at his computer. I debate on whether to pay attention. I've seen this recording maybe five or six times, Jules was the first Victor from my own district, after all. But I find I'm eager to see the old man again, and I lean forward as the recording starts.

_The Seventh Annual Hunger Games_ is splashed across the screen in garish gold letters before the video launches right into the reaping. Same story, different faces. The kids from 1 are both really young this year. There's a twelve year old from 4. A boy with only one arm from 5. Ahenobarbus's pet this year is a tall girl named Vesta. She stands next to her shivering district partner, a blank look on her face.

The camera switches to the familiar square from 7, looking exactly how it always did before rebels burned down everything but the tavern. The hideously flamboyant escort pulls the name of a Community Home girl out before reading the name 'Jules Elmer.' Jules slouches to the stage, giving a shrug of resignation when he reaches the escort. Hate to say it, but Jules was pretty good looking back in the day. Nothing like Wheaton, and nowhere near the lustrous beacon of male perfection that was Finnick Odair, but he's well-built and has a nice smile and bright green eyes under the big nose.

The rest of the districts fly by. District 12's aren't even named. There are a few montages of the training day. Most of it is focused on Jules, who seemingly spent the whole day holding an ax over his shoulder looking intimidating. There's a bit of time focused on Vesta, who builds an alliance with the boys from 4 and 9.

Jules is dressed in a ridiculous leafy green suit for the interview at CGN. Augustine Pine asks him some general questions about back home that he answers in a gruff voice. He's still in school, works part-time as a lumberjack, has a girlfriend, lives with his mother and two sisters. He only smiles when Augustine asks him what his strategy in the arena will be.

"Hit things with my ax," he says. The studio audience roars with laughter.

The floor of the arena this year was made of mirrored glass, with cubes and ramps of mirrors scattered about. The result gave the illusion that the arena was filled with hundreds of tributes instead of twenty four. The gong sounds and the tributes sprint away, a couple of them running directly into glass. I have to laugh as Jules walks way. He doesn't run, he walks as if he has all the time in the world. The weapons are scattered throughout the arena instead of just being piled in the center. Jules ignores knives and machetes until he comes across an ax on top of one the glass ramps. He strolls away and finds a corner between two mirrored cubes and hunkers down to defend his position.

There are very few tributes who won the Games by just playing defensively. Jules is one. He ignores the tributes who scamper past him, and they him. The boy from 6 tries to jump him, and Jules hacks him down, his face completely expressionless. The girl from 8 loses her head completely and rushes him with a spear. Afterwards, Jules looks down at her body with a vague expression, as though he can't really believe what he's seeing.

He stands and waits for a couple hours until Vesta and her allies finish off the rest of the competition. Then they turn on each other. The boy from 9 goes down first, then Vesta runs the boy from 4 through with her sword. It takes her twenty minutes to track down Jules in his corner. If the two bodies at his feet make her wary, she doesn't show it.

"Ready to die, Seven?" she asks. Jules just shrugs.

She rushes him. The illusion of the mirrors makes it seem as though there are six of her coming from all different directions. Jules closes his eyes for half a second, cocks his head, then throws his ax in a blinding silver streak. That throw was frequently rated by television programmes as one of the top ten Hunger Games moments. Vesta flies back, the ax in her chest, dead before she hits the ground. Pistol fires. Trumpets sound. Jules Elmer, at just over sixteen, becomes the youngest person to win the Hunger Games.

The footage show different reactions around Panem. The cheering arena crowd, people dancing in the streets of 7. Angry cries in 2. The Victors watching in their private box. Ahenobarbus shakes his head.

"An ax," he mutters. "Of all things, it would be an ax."

There's some footage of the Victory Ceremony, but Beetee turns it off early. He glances at Peeta, but Mellark is sipping his cocoa, looking very much at ease.

"Well, that's Jules," says Beetee. "Anything else we should add about him? Family, memories, interests?"

"He knew," says Connor, his voice hoarse. "I think he knew."

We all look at him. Connor is still staring at the blank screen.

"Knew what, Murphy?" asks Enobaria, her hand gripping her glass of 'tomato juice.'

"We were the mentors for Seven. Jules and I. I mentored Johanna, and Jules mentored Blight. Not that either of you needed it. But when…when Blight died I…I couldn't handle it. He told me to leave. He told me he'd keep watch on Mason if I had to…release."

Tears are streaming down his cheeks. Something tells me that this is the first Connor has spoken about this and even Enobaria stays quiet.

"I spent two days in Samson's. I hardly remember them. And then the arrow. Katniss. The arena. The whole Capitol went crazy. The mentors…none of them who were in the Control Center." He sighs, his shoulders slumped. "He must have known. He got me out. I was drunk, high. I don't even remember how I got to the safe house, just that I woke up there with Lucia and the others. I wanted to go back for Jules, I begged and fought but they said…they said he was already dead. All of them."

He wipes the tears off his face. "They probably gunned him down. Like an animal. Defenseless."

"He wasn't defenseless," says Enobaria. "He killed one of them when they came. With his chair."

We all stare at her. Connor speaks first.

"How could you possibly know that? Jules was eighty-four years old and-"

"I saw the recording. I wanted to know what happened to Dido."

"If you're just saying that to patronize me-"

"When have I ever patronized anyone, Murphy? Think about what you know about me. Think about what you knew about that old man. Then tell me what you think the truth is."

A small smile breaks across Connor's face. "He died well."

"He was a good man," says Beetee. "Decent."

"He'd invite me for tea every Friday, and bring it over if I didn't show up," I say.

"He died well," says Enobaria. She raises her glass and drinks. When she pulls it away, her lips are stained red. "He died a Victor."


	9. Seaward

It had been more than eight years since the end of the uprising and Panem was finally getting acclimated to the new social order. The districts were operating at nearly one hundred percent efficiency again. Hotbeds of seditious rabble had been thoroughly repressed and re-educated. There had not been an outbreak of disorder since before the Fifth Games. The Capitol citizenry had finally purged the terrorist attacks, riots, and sabotage of the Dark Days from their collective memory. Copious amounts of food, liquor, luxuries and other vices flooding into the jewel of Panem all did their part to help, of course.

Which is why the bombing of the Hunger Games stadium shook the nation to its core.

The attack was traced back to insurgent sleeper cells rooted in Districts 3, 6, and 11. In the following weeks there were twenty-nine public executions broadcast on mandatory viewing. An unknown number of individuals disappeared in the ensuing crackdown. A massive wall was erected around 11, where the ringleaders came from, and Peacekeeper presence in each district was heavily increased, with the exceptions of 1, 2 and 12.

The Stadium Bombing was the last real offensive by rebel forces until the Proposal Night riots sixty-seven years later. Nevertheless, the damage had been done. Fifty-seven tourists, employees and security personnel had been killed in the attack. And the Hunger Games stadium was damaged beyond repair less than three months before the upcoming Eighth Hunger Games. It was turned into a memorial, then a museum, and by the Second Quarter Quell it had become an amusement park.

"We have been attacked, but not wounded! We have been burned, but are not scorched!" proclaimed President Lucius in his first official statement after the bombing. "We will not allow this cowardly, unprovoked attack on our innocent citizenry deter us from a safe and secure Panem. The Games _will_ be held on schedule!"

It was a pronouncement that threw the Gamemakers into disarray. Rebuilding the stadium was out of the question. Anything less than the spectacle expected after seven years would be a consequential assertion that the insurgency had won. Finally, the Gamemakers decided to block out a large area of wilderness just outside the Capitol to serve as the new arena. Laborers were brought in from nearly every district to erect force-field walls, build catacombs, set up cameras, and assist in the construction of the first outdoor arena.

People would still be able to come from the Capitol and watch the Games from special viewing boxes and luxury hovercrafts, but most everyone would have to watch on live broadcast, an announcement that inspired ire throughout the Capitol, especially those who had ten-year passes to see the Games live. One of the largest complaints was that no one would be able to see the tributes with their own eyes before they were thrown into the arena. The Gamemakers responded by organizing a parade the night before training day. Individuals whose passes were now redundant were given prime seating for the event.

The first ever Opening Ceremonies were a huge hit, and helped salve the wounds left by the sudden changes in the format of the Games. The tributes grasped the sides of their chariots nervously, some crying, some trying to look intimidating, others waving to the crowd to try and garner support. Designers from the fashion houses had again been brought in to dress the tributes, and for the parade they went all out.

Two of the more remarkable looking tributes were the pair from District 4, dressed up in flowing robes the color of sea-foam. Seaward Docker and Waverly Mertz, both seventeen, had been reaped together the day before. Unlike many of the other tributes who treated their district partners with fear or indifference, Seaward and Waverly were comfortable with each other from the start. During the chariot rides they waved and laughed and whispered together, instantly generating speculation as to the nature of their relationship. Their mentor had warned them about being to overly familiar with each other, but neither was a good enough actor (or had the desire) to hide it. It only took a few interviews in District 4 before the whole country knew that Waverly was engaged to marry Seaward's older brother.

Both tributes deliberately trained with unfamiliar weapons during the training day. Seaward ignored the offers of the boy from 2 to join a new all-male alliance. During the CGN interviews, Augustine Pine interviewed the two together and interrogated them both on their strategy during the Games.

"We'll stick together, and help each other out," said Seaward. "We both have enough strengths to get us to the finals."

"Once it's down to the final few, we'll separate and go at it alone," added Waverly. "Our alliance until then will be stronger than any of the others because we'll never at any point be competing against each other."

"Well folks, looks like District 4 has a real head-start this year in the alliance category!" Augustine said, an eager smile on his face.

The studio audience cheered. In the follow-up interviews, many pundits expressed keen disappointment that the patron system had been suspended for the Eighth Games until a new method of sponsorship could be set up. Waverly and Seaward would have had no shortage of patrons, but alas, all the Capitol citizens could do was watch and cheer and bet.

The arena of the Eighth Games took up nearly the entirety of a mountain valley, so close to the Capitol that the tributes could see the light pollution reflecting in the night sky. The tributes were launched on the outer edges of the arena high on the mountain slopes, with no supplies except the clothes on their back. Just the trek down was dangerous, with no discernable paths, sparse vegetation, and prowling mutts. The only water source was a lake in the center of the arena, visible from all points. Weapons and food had been scattered in bundles along the water's edge, daring the tributes to race down and snatch them up.

Nineteen tributes made it to the lake alive. The boys' alliance of 1, 2, 7 and 9 gathered at the water's edge, picking off tributes as they appeared while hovercrafts loomed above them. Waverly and Seaward had been launched from opposite ends of the arena, but they reached the lake at nearly the same time. The boys from 2 and 9 tried to corner them, but they merely dove into the lake together and started swimming. Seaward actually laughed as the alliance watched them from the shore, none of them able to brave the water themselves. Both tributes from 4 were able to get a hold of a spear and a small pack and made it to a small wooded isle in the center of the lake.

The Capitol had expected the Games to go on for hours, maybe well into the night, but the tributes from 4, safe on their little sanctuary, extended the Eight Hunger Games far beyond any expectations. The boys' alliance were reduced to climbing through the rocky terrain, hunting for the remaining five tributes who had been too afraid or smart to race for the lake shore.

By the third day of the Games, the boys were a highly-stressed, shivering, wounded mess. Their popularity plummeted in the Capitol, while a camera was always focused on Waverly and Seaward, spearing fish, cutting through the water, cooking and laughing together, listening for the sound of the cannons that had been set up just outside the glimmering force-field walls.

Desperate to end the Games, the boys' alliance launched an attack on the island. The boy from 7 cut one of the few trees in the arena down and under the cover of darkness dragged it out to the moonlit lake. Clinging to the log, the four boys paddled out toward the island, knives held in their teeth.

The moonlight betrayed them. Waverly, on watch, noticed the glimmer of the knives and heard the soft paddling. Silently she woke Seaward. In half a moment, she had disappeared into the black waters of the lake.

None of the alliance noticed when the boy from 9 disappeared beneath the waves, or saw his floating corpse reappeared a few minutes later. The boy from 7 didn't even make a sound as he was pulled beneath the waves. By the time the log made it to the island, the alliance had been cut in half and the boys from 1 and 2 found themselves facing Seaward alone, fully-awake and waiting for them. All the boy from 1 saw was his last ally cut down before he was half-way out of the water. His courage left him with a cry and he launched himself back into the lake, paddling frantically until he stumbled back onto the far shore, grateful to be alive.

"How many left?" asked Waverly as she climbed out of the water.

"Besides us?" said Seaward. "Three."

Waverly nodded. "Tomorrow we spilt up then. Take our chances. Let's stay the night in case the last one comes back."

"Deal," said Seaward. "Good luck."

The cameras caught everything.

That night, drones flew out from the Capitol and positioned themselves in a grid work pattern above the arena. Manipulating the electric currents in the air, they whipped up a storm in a matter of minutes. It started raining. It rained and it rained, all through the night. The sides of the mountains were turned into a torrent of flashfloods and mudslides, and by the next morning three cannons had fired.

Seaward and Waverly woke, shivering and freezing and the last two tributes remaining.

"What now?" asked Waverly, her voice taught. "We never planned for this."

Seaward shook his head. "They did, though." He picked up his pack and his spear. "But we stick with the original plan. We head out and take our chances."

Waverly nodded. She watched as Seaward strode away through the trees to the water's edge. No one will ever know what went through her mind at that point, whether she had been planning it all along, or if Seaward's brother had told her to get home at any cost, or if she just realized that she was only a spear throw away from going home herself. Whatever her motives, the result was the same.

Waverly waited until her former ally was nearly at the lake before launching her spear at his back. He heard it, reacted instinctively and moved just a fraction. Enough so that Waverly's spear missed by just a hairsbreadth.

Seaward's spear didn't miss. The last cannon fired.

Seaward was lifted out of the arena, screaming and crying and pleading with his brother to forgive him. He spent the Victory Ceremony sitting on the throne with the crown on his head, staring blankly at the audience, unable to string more than two words together. The Capitol sedatives pumped into him were very strong, after all.

He wasn't the first tribute to kill his own district partner, but he was the first to ever make it out of the arena alive. The train left for District 4 the next day, carrying Seaward Docker towards a place almost universally split between those who hailed him as a hero and those who would hate him forever.


	10. Gleam

Gleam Cobble tugged at the collar of his shirt. It was too tight. Actually everything was tight, the shirt, the silver band around his neck, especially the shiny metallic trousers that felt like they had been painted onto his lower body. But Letonius Leonard, his stylist, had taken a personal interest in him even after the Games were over and insisted Gleam undergo a full makeover from his fashion house before his first night on the town.

Gleam tugged at his collar again, even though he knew perfectly well that the tightness in his throat wasn't due to the cut of the shirt. The limousine barreled down the crowded streets, and he tried to distract himself by staring out at the blurs of color and light. It didn't really work.

Luxe noticed. "Are you alright, Gleam?" he asked. "Need a drink? Wine, spritzer water? Something stronger?"

Platinum snorted from where he was sprawled out on the opposite side of the car, a flute of champagne in his hand. "Stop mothering the man, Luxe. He got through the Games all right without you there to hold his hand. The Victory Tour's over. You can stop mothering him."

Luxe flipped him a rude sign. "Was I talking to you, Plat? You're one to talk about mothering. If he had hooked up with 2 and 7 like you suggested, Gleam would've been dead on the first day."

"I…I'm fine…I…" Gleam managed to stammer, but neither of the other two men seemed to notice.

"Oh here we go. 'I'm the first district Victor, I'm the one who formulates the strategy, I'm the one with all the connections in the city, me me me me me.'"

"I…I'm really not…"

"Well yes, I am. Are you still jealous that CGN interviewed me and not you on day two? And four? And five?"

"I don't…"

"Oh, go stuff something sandpapery up your skinny arse, Luxe. It was me who made sure the knives were in the arena and don't you forget it. If it weren't for me, Gleam would have never managed to kill-"

"Stop it! Stop it!" Gleams voice broke as the words burst out of him. The other two Victors looked at him in shock.

"Just…stop talking about it," Gleam whispered as a flush rose on his cheeks. "I don't want to think about it again."

Luxe shot a glare at Platinum. "What the hell is wrong with you, Plat? The man just finished his Victory Tour, he's been having this shoved in his face for the past two weeks, you think he wants to hear about it from you?"

"Oh go stuff yourself, you prissed up-"

"It's fine." Gleam's voice was steadier, his hands had stopped shaking. "I just…it's fine." He tugged at his shirt again, not making eye contact with either of his mentors.

Luxe reached over and put a hand on his arm. "What's wrong, Gleam? Really? You can tell us."

"It's just…" He looked down at his shimmering clothes, the value of which was greater than his old cottage. "I'm just not sure what my parents would think. Seeing me like this."

Luxe's grip on his arm tightened. "I think your parents are probably just glad you're alive."

Platinum gave another snort. "At least you still have parents. You know how many people from the Community Home came to greet me when I got back? An overwhelming zero." He tilted his head back and drained the rest of the champagne.

Luxe rolled his eyes. "Plat, it never fails to amaze me how you can consistently make everything about you."

Platinum didn't have time to respond as the limo glided to a halt. A swell of noise filled the car.

"Here we go," said Luxe. "Just relax. And try to have a good time. You've earned it."

The chauffer opened the door and the three Victors stepped out into the light and life of the Capitol.

For a moment, Gleam thought he was back on the pedestal in the forest, shaking as the seconds counted down before the gong. There were lights everywhere, people, shouts and cries and screams. But then the flashback faded and Gleam forced himself to breathe again. The arena was gone. He, and he alone, had made it out.

The nightclub was illuminated by dozens of blue and violent lights. Neon letters twenty feet tall blazed the word _Samson's_ into the night. People dressed in all shades of color waited in a line that stretched all the way around the next block. Luxe put his hand on Gleam's shoulder and guided him forward. Cameras were flashing and people were shouting and all Gleam wanted was to be back in the little cottage on the outskirts of 1. But, of course, he had wanted that for a while now.

The three Victors approached the silver doors, Luxe and Platinum ignoring the line, Gleam tagging along behind them. Screams broke out when those waiting for admission saw the trio of Victors. A rush of people, most of them young women, broke away from the line and stampeded towards them. Gleam tried his best to fade into the background, but to his astonishment and shock, half the group passed Luxe and Platinum by and engulfed him in screams and cheers. In a moment he had lost his companions and all sense of direction.

"Gleam! Gleam! Remember me? From the parade?-"

"Gleam, you're my favorite Victor _EVER!_"

"Gleam, sign my program!"

"Sign my hat!"

"Gleam! Gleam! Sign my breasts!"

Gleam could feel the scream fighting to get out of him. He fought it down, to no avail. Just when he pivoted on his heel to run screaming into the night, the surrounding frenzy was pushed aside by two enormous men in dark glasses. A tall woman with feathers instead of hair and a nose like a sparrow hawk's snatched his hand and pulled him to the doors where Luxe and Platinum were waiting.

"I am so, so sorry about that, Mr. Cobble. Clearly you're quite the popular Victor!"

Luxe put a hand on Gleam's shoulder as the doors opened and the group marched inside, the woman still chatting away.

"Gleam, I'm Madame Nigella, owner and founder of Samson's. Welcome to your first of what I'm sure will be many frequent visits. Anyone from the Old Boy's Club is welcome here, no admission at any time. That includes you now!"

"Old Boy's Club?" Gleam whispered to Luxe.

"It's what a lot of the Capitol calls the Victors," Luxe said. "Since we've had nine boys so far."

Gleam didn't answer. He was staring around at the immense four story casino they had wandered into. Games of chance were flashing and chiming, people in outrageous clothes were drinking and playing and betting, gilded gold and silver statues and fountains were scattered about in a display of wealth Gleam could have never dreamed of, even in District 1. People waved and called at them, but the presence of the two giant men deterred any of them from rushing up for autographs.

"Samson's caters to every desire, every sort of pleasure imaginable. This casino is only one of three in the establishment. There are wine tasting rooms, lounges, and other high-class affairs in the east wing. Above us are the dance floors and performances by Panem's very best talent. Always popular with the younger crowd, of course. If you're looking for more physical enjoyment, our ladies and gentlemen's clubs are in the west section. Feel free to ask for anything you need, Mr. Cobble. Victors receive only five-star treatment here!"

"She seems friendly," Gleam muttered to no one in particular.

Platinum heard anyway. "Thousands of people come for a chance to be seen partying with the Victors," he said as he snatched a glass of champagne from a tray and downed half of it. "It's all business for these people. Welcome to fame and glory, kid."

"Here we are!" The feathered woman stopped outside two heavy golden doors. "The private lounge, as requested. You'll let me know if you need anything else?"

"Of course, Nigella," said Luxe. "Thank you again."

"Of course! Of course! Anything for my boys." She turned and looked at Gleam with her predator's eyes. "And congratulations on your Victory, Gleam. I loved watching you!"

And she grabbed Gleam's collar and planted a kiss right on his mouth. Gleam stood transfixed even after she tottered away. Platinum gave a chuckle as an Avox opened the door.

"You get used to it, kid. Welcome to paradise."

For a private lounge, it was awfully crowded and noisy. People were sprawled on couches, dancing in the center of the floor, drinking and eating and doing things that made the heat rise in Gleam's cheeks and quickly look away. Avoxes strode around with trays of food and glasses of liquor. Gleam eagerly snatched up a prawn and stuffed it into his mouth, wondering if people would just ignore him if he gorged himself all night.

"Well look who finally made it. Was beginning to think you were going to miss your own party, District One."

A young man with a good natured face and large ears enveloped Luxe and Platinum in a bear hug. It took a moment for Gleam to recognize the boy from the lumber district who had won the Games the year before last.

"Gleam, this is Jules Elmer, District Seven. Jules, our newest Victor, Gleam Cobble."

Gleam held out his hand, which Jules ignored in favor of another hug. "Good to finally meet you, Gleam. Sorry I missed your banquet during the tour. Welcome to the club, boyo."

Another young man, older and far more handsome than Jules, broke away from the Capitol girl clinging to him and approached the group.

"No need for introductions, we've met," said Wheaton as he shook hands. "Welcome back, lapdogs. I hope you're not just here to rub my face in Nine's dismal performance this year."

Gleam looked down at the floor. Both of the tributes from 9 had died in the first couple of hours, if he remembered right. He didn't kill either, of course, but still, he was standing here and they were…somewhere else.

"I'm sure there are no hard feelings between any of us," said Luxe, his voice tinged with an unusual hardness."

"Any of _us?_" said Wheaton. "Of course not." He put an arm around Gleam and led him into the bustling lounge. "Don't be shy, Gleam. Have a drink. Have a girl. Everything here is free, as I'm sure you've guessed. The Capitol is eager to show us off."

"I…I…think…" Gleam took a deep breath. "I think I'd rather just sit. And maybe have some food."

Wheaton shrugged. "More for me then." He walked off without another glance.

Gleam saw an unoccupied couch and collapsed into it. He pulled his legs up and buried his head in his knees for a moment. The lights went away, but the noise remained. It was overwhelming. He untucked himself and asked an Avox if he could get something to eat. Before he knew it, twelve plates of food were set in front of him. Gleam started eating, and eating and eating, trying to ignore the people around him. He saw Jules dancing with a throng of admirers. Luxe was nowhere to be seen. Wheaton was in a corner, doing something with a girl that Gleam's mother would have smacked him for even naming. Platinum was having a good time on his own couch with both a boy and a girl.

Gleam focused on his food. He couldn't have said how much time went by. He was just glad people were finally ignoring him. He took a large bite of a scallop just as two figures sat down on either side of him.

"Enjoying the party, Gleam?" asked a deep voice.

Gleam nearly choked. Ahenobarbus grinned through his copper beard, his eyes like flints of ice. On his other side, Tiberius smirked under his overlong black hair.

It took several seconds for Gleam to swallow his scallop and stammer out. "It's….it's….okay, I guess."

_Leave me alone. Please just leave me alone._

"Yes, it's okay, isn't it. Wine, Gleam?"

Gleam looked at the glass Ahenobarbus was offering. "I…really shouldn't."

"Of course you should. You're a Victor now. And I insist."

Gleam took the glass and gulped half the wine down out of nerves. His head spun. It was very strong.

"I watched your victory in the Games with great interest, Gleam. As did most of the country. I was wondering if you be willing to answer a few questions."

Gleam felt the blood rise in his cheeks. "About what? Why?"

"Because you're a fluke," said Tiberius. "A freak."

"Now Ty, let's not be hasty. Let the man speak." Ahenobarbus leaned over so Gleam had to look him in the eyes. "You demonstrated some…unusual skills during the Games, Gleam. Can you tell me who trained you? It certainly wasn't either of the bumbling idiots you came here with this evening."

"No one trained me," Gleam said, a flush of anger surging through him. "I learned everything I know from my parents."

Ahenobarbus grinned without any humor. "Something we have in common. Your parents were soldiers? Rebels? Prize fighters?"

Gleam shook his head. "They were circus performers. With Absalom and Adelia, the Circus Siblings. Before the Dark Days they traveled around to the districts and the Capitol. My dad was a tumbler." A strain of pride tinged his voice. "They were famous."

Tiberius snorted. "Sure they were."

"They were," said Ahenobarbus. "I saw the circus once. A long time ago." He shook his head and gave a laugh. "So all that time you spent up in the trees, swinging from branches, doing flips, avoiding everyone else, you learned from your dad?"

Gleam nodded. "He always hoped that they'd be able to get the circus back together. After the war. He cleans warehouses now, but he taught me. He hoped I'd be like him."

"You're such a liar," said Tiberius. "You don't learn to knife fight in the circus. Marble was the best knife thrower in the district. He didn't even stand a chance when he cornered you."

Gleam drank the rest of his wine. "My mother was a show thrower. She could throw knives all around a person and never harm a hair. She never missed. She taught me."

Ahenobarbus's eyes shone. "Fascinating. Care to give a demonstration?"

"I don't have my knives."

"No worries." Ahenobarbus reached into his coat pocket and pulled out several blades. Gleam recoiled. He recognized them, of course. One of them had buried itself in the eye of the boy from 2, right before the trumpets sounded after four days. He could still hear the screams.

"Where…where did you get those?"

"Not important, Gleam. Ready to give us a little show? It'll be like the circus is back in the Capitol. Your parents would be so proud."

Ahenobarbus stood and called out an order. Before Gleam was aware of what was happening, an Avox was being pressed against the far wall. Her dark hair and ashy skin suggested she had once come from District 3. Her eyes shone with tears and terror, but she dared not disobey, even when Ahenobarbus told her to stretch her arms out. People were staring.

"Ready, Gleam?"

Gleams head was spinning, from the wine and the fear. "I…I don't know if I can…"

"Either you throw, or I do. I never miss either."

Gleam gulped and took the knives from the Victor's outstretched hands. He looked at the Avox, trying to communicate with his eyes that she had nothing to worry about. People were cheering and clapping in anticipation. Luxe was there, not smiling, but not interfering either. In the end, he had to throw.

One knife embedded itself in the wall under her left ear. Another beneath her right. A third knife struck just under her armpit. The fourth did the same.

"One more," said Ahenobarbus.

Gleam didn't even have to look. The knife flew from his hand and stuck in the wall directly above the Avox's head. She gave a silent heave of relief. People applauded him all around, cheering and laughing. Even Tiberius had lost his smirk and was looking grudgingly impressed. He had done it. And no one had died. He wondered if this was how his parents had felt at the end of their shows.

"Very impressive," said Ahenobarbus. "Except for one thing. Mercy is a weakness."

A sixth knife appeared in his hand and before Gleam could even cry out, it was flying towards the Avox's heart.

It never reached the target. A massive hand snatched it out of mid-air. A giant of a man, his skin as dark as mahogany, stared at the knife in his hand curiously before stabbing a sandwich on a platter and stuffing it all into his mouth.

Ahenobarbus didn't blink. "Touché, Orchus."

Tiberius sneered. "What a Tard."

"If you think that man is truly simple, Ty, you're more oblivious than even I thought."

The Avox had disappeared and the crowd was going back to their other pursuits. Gleam realized he was shaking.

"Are you alright, Gleam?" Luxe was at his shoulder, glaring at the Victors from 2. "You two are disgusting."

Ahenobarbus nodded at him. "No harm done, St. James. Just a little business research. Gleam, I'm sure we'll have a wonderful working relationship in the future."

The men from 2 disappeared. Gleam turned on his heel and went back to his couch, ignoring Luxe's questions.

Someone had taken his spot. Bloodshot eyes stared up at him under sandy hair.

"Having a good time, Victor?" asked Seaward, his voice slurred from alcohol.

"I wish people would stop asking," said Gleam. "What do you think?"

Seaward smiled. "Have a seat."

Gleam sat, eating another scallop as he ignored the boy from 4.

"So have you found your hatch yet?"

"My…my what?"

Seaward's smile had as much humor as Ahenobarbus's did. "Your hatch. Escape hatch. Your way to make it all go away."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you do. Plat drinks, everyone knows that. Luxe is probably the most normal, he just shuts himself in his house and draws all day without speaking to anyone. Wheaton drops his trousers for any willing pair of legs. If you can smoke it, Tiberius will try it. And you don't want to know what Ahenobarbus does when he needs some distraction. So what about you?"

"Well," said Gleam, looking down at the empty plates in front of him. "I like to eat."

Seaward laughed. "Pretty tame, but if that's your thing, that's your thing."

"Well, what do you do?" asked Gleam.

Seaward smiled. "I go numb." He pulled a vial out of his pocket. "It's called morphling. The doctors use it to kill pain. It makes you forget. It makes you happy."

He held the vial out to Gleam. "Want a try?"

Gleam eyed the crystal liquid. "It sounds dangerous."

"No more dangerous than the Games. And a lot more fun. I promise, some of this and the whole night will fly by. You'll open your eyes and be back on the train, headed home.

Gleam reached out. His hand hesitated, drew back, and then he snatched the vial.

"Start out with just a sip-" said Seaward but before he could finish Gleam had drank half the vial.

The room swam. The voices split, joined together. Someone was singing. And then everything sank away, away, away. Away to nothingness. The couch was so soft. The music was so pretty. And the Games…the Games…

What Games?

Gleam just sat there with a smile on his face. He didn't even blink when Luxe was shouting and Platinum slammed Seaward into a wall in anger. He didn't notice Ahenobarbus and Tiberius laughing. He just smiled. Even as Jules scooped him up and Madame Nigella led him and Luxe out a back door to avoid the cameras and stares, he smiled.

It was the last time he smiled for a long time afterwards. But oh, did he smile.


	11. Camden

_**Excerpts from the journal of Camden Donner, the Victor of the Tenth Annual Hunger Games, found in the possession of Haymitch Abernathy after the first ever Liberation Day celebration.**_

Notes by Haymitch Abernathy and Peeta Mellark included.

JM: And Johanna Mason.

_June 20__th_

_The reaping is tomorrow. The first day of summer. District 12 only gets a few months of warm, clear weather a year and a couple weeks of that is ruined by the Hunger Games. The rest of the season is dedicated to grieving and trying to get on with our lives. Until next year. I used to love summer. But that was before the fence and the Peacekeepers and the Games. Now I just hate it._

_Mom keeps insisting that there's nothing to worry about. She said that two years ago. And the year before that. But she's in the other room, washing my only nice shirt and trousers in the old dirty washtub like it's just another holiday that we have to look smart for. Ryla and Jon are in the other room. Ryla hasn't spoken for two days. Mother says she's just nervous but we both know better. She's remembering._

PM: Camden was no stranger to the horrors of the Hunger Games. His younger brother was reaped for the Eighth Games, his uncle (who was around his age) for the Seventh. But the losses his family endured weren't limited to the Games. The Donners had signed the Declaration of Freedom on behalf of District 12 at the start of the Dark Days. Camden had lost his father, two older brothers, uncles, aunts and cousins during the course of the rebellion, leaving him with only a mother and two young siblings until he was reaped. The Donner's continued to pay the price for their 'treason' all the way to the Second Quarter Quell, when Camden's niece Maysilee was reaped.

HA: Coulda just been coincidence. Seventy-four years, lots of families lost more than one.

PM: Do you believe that?

HA: No.

_This Reaping Day will mark three years since I started working in the mines. You start to forget what midday looks like, with six days in the mines and the seventh spent mostly caught up on sleep. Jon fancies himself a candy-maker, is cooking up something sweet with molasses and honey he managed to wheedle out of some trader at the Hob. I don't know how he does it. No wait, I do. I opens those big puppy eyes and sticks out his lower lip and comes back home with something useless and ridiculous that he's convinced we need._

_His candy is still good, though._

* * *

_June 21__st_

_Headed to the square in a bit. Ryla is shaking. Mom is trying to comfort her. Keep telling her that her name isn't even in the bowl. She's scared for me. She keeps saying that if I'm picked it's because of her name. Jon told her not to be stupid, but I can see he's nervous. Took him aside and told him to be nicer. He kicked me. That's how I knew how scared he is. Jon is so gentle he guides wayward hornets out of our house back into the garden._

PM: What did Ryla mean about it being her fault because of her name?

HA: Jon and Ryla Undersee were two tributes from the First Hunger Games. They were celebrated rebels. Neither of them older than you and Katniss were when you went into the Games. Prodigies, both of them. Jon's strategies won several key offensives, Ryla was the face of the original propos. Sort of a combination between Katniss's bull-headedness and how you used to manipulate the Capitol public.

PM: She sounds fascinating.

HA: She was. Which is why naming a kid from 12 after her was one of the most idiotic moves possible.

JM: No one ever said Twelvies had sense.

PM: Do you mind, Johanna?

JM: No.

_Later:_

_In Justice Building. Have been reaped. Not unexpected. Mom and Ryla hysterical. Jon gave me some molasses candy. Is sticking to the roof of my mouth._

_Am allowed to take one token from my district into the arena. Will take this journal. Will update later._

_Later:_

_I'm on the train now, finally getting a moment of peace to write. Night has fallen and I'm headed towards the Capitol. My district partner keeps knocking. I think she wants comfort. She won't get any from our escort, or our mentor. Matti Clude was the highest-ranking rebel in 12 to survive the rebellion. He was a cook for the rebel barracks before they were blown to bits. I think he's passed out drunk._

JM: Must be a District 12 mentor tradition.

PM: Johanna, take this seriously.

JM: What makes you think I'm not?

_Was able to get a look at the competition during the recaps. The District 2 male is definitely one of Ahenobarbus's. The District 7 male looks strong too. The boy from 10 could be a problem as well. Not sure about the others. Will write more when I have training._

* * *

_June 23__rd_

_Training has been extended to two days to include survival training. Passed edible plants, passed fire making. Avoiding weapons stations, except for knife fighting. Shouldn't be too hard to get a hold of one, if they're included in the arena. Clude says the Capitol finally came up with a way to get gifts from patrons to the tributes in the arena. The patrons are called 'sponsors' now and apparently the system is very official. Something to do with pledges and parachutes. Clude went on about it for some length, but I told him as long as I get something to stab into District 2's eye, I don't care how it gets to me. That shut him up. Or maybe it was the whiskey. He was very drunk._

_Poppy (my district partner) is crying in her room again. I think she realizes that she doesn't really stand a chance. No one is really bothering to tell her otherwise. Of course, I don't have a chance either. Doesn't mean I'm not going to try._

_I'm a Donner. We fight._

* * *

_June 27__th_

_Had my interview tonight. The costume was better than the one at the parade, I guess. The woman who's dressing me up (they call her a stylist, but she's more like a little girl with a new doll) is still going with the coal theme. I hope this doesn't set a precedent. I'm not going to write about the parade costume. You all saw it, and it's too embarrassing to go on about._

_I swear, Jon, if you laughed, I'm giving Ryla permission to hit you from now until next summer._

_Ryla, behave yourself. But hit him for me._

_Talked about the family during my interview. Was asked about Thom of course. Augustine asked if I thought I'd do better than my murdered brother. Almost punched him, but probably would get blown up in the arena for that. Told him my family had faith in me. Only true thing I said during the whole damn interview._

_Some reporter said the odds weren't in my family's favor a couple days ago. Everyone keeps repeating it. Telling me that they hope the odds are more in my favor. Sounds like it's going to stick. It's really annoying._

JM: So District 12 is to blame for that stupid catch line? This is me not being surprised.

_Later:_

_It's 3am. Can't sleep. Games are tomorrow._

_Mom, I love you. I'll give Dad your love. Mickel and Ross and Thom as well. _

_Jon, keep doing the candy thing. I think you're really good at it._

_Ryla, keep an eye on your brother. You know how he gets. He's going to think he's the man of the house now but he relies on you more than he realizes him. Take care of him, and don't be afraid to go to him when you need him._

_I love you all. Good bye._

* * *

_June 28__th_

_Have survived the first day of the Games. Capitol showed dead tributes in the sky. Wonder how they do it. Lots of faces. Couldn't keep track. Hungry and cold, but not too bad yet. Hoping Claude will-_

_**Pages removed or lost.**_

PM: There was no Cornucopia in the first few Games held in outdoor arenas. The tributes in the Tenth Games were, like the previous two, launched randomly throughout the arena. There were no supplies provided. Weapons were solely given as sponsor gifts to test out the new system.

The Tenth Hunger Games were held in a forested area filled with lakes and small streams. Water and food were in abundance, if the tributes had taken the time to go through the survival stations. Not all of them did. The arena was also filled with vicious mutts. The Capitol had a surplus of genetic muttations left over from the war. Their genetic makeup was beginning to deteriorate, and the Gamemakers decided to rid themselves of the excess by dumping them all in the Games at once.

Seventeen tributes died in the first day of the Games. Only six were killed by other tributes.

* * *

_June 29__th_

_Thanks for the sickle, Clude. Might have been useful before I had half my arm torn off by something with a lot of hair and teeth._

_Have received a needle and thread as a sponsor gift. Chewing some ash bark to help with the pain._

_Later:_

_That really hurt. But the Cap. must have loved it. Got food. Real food._

_Later:_

_Killed boy from 2. Was easier than I thought. He was missing a leg._

PM: By the time the Tenth Games were underway, the traditional Career alliance was beginning to take shape. The two Victors from 2 managed to stick at least one of their trained tributes in the Games every year. The tributes who had Victors for mentors usually had a chance of joining up. The boy from 1 was a given. The tributes from 7 were accepted if they knew how to use an ax. The boy from 9 was quickly shunted out once it became apparent that Wheaton was starting to no longer care.

HA: They didn't let females in until girls started winning the Games. Every Career girl who won can thank Mags for that.

PM: During the Tenth Games, the alliance lost the boy from 4 on the first day. They were set on by mutts on day two and the boy from 2 lost his leg. His two allies abandoned him, and he lay at the base of a tree, in shock from the pain, until Camden Donner stumbled upon him.

* * *

_June 30__th_

_Killed girl. Not sure where she was from. Tried to steal my food. Killed her._

PM: It was the girl from District 8.

_Is easy to kill people. Didn't want to._

_Mom you know I didn't want to._

_Will ask Ross if it was this easy for him during rebellion. Does water wash away blood? It's not washing away._

_Sun makes everything look red._

_Mockingjays are singing at me._

PM: The final few entries in Camden's journal are increasingly erratic and nonsensical. The death of the girl from District 8 appeared to have a profound impact on him. Footage shows him stumbling around the arena in shock. The Capitol sent a couple mutts after him, but Camden was able to dispatch them with relative ease. There is one further entry of note, made the next day.

* * *

_July 1__st_

_Ryla's birthday. Happy birthday, Ryla._

_Found hole in ground. Will hide here until Games are done. Sort of cave, I think. Won't be able to write._

PM: This is the last entry in Camden's journal until his victory. There is no further footage of Camden the Games until two days later, when he stumbles out of the cave as the Victor. The missing footage has been a source of confusion for the project and we've come up with only one conclusion. It never existed in the first place.

HA: The kid had found something he wasn't supposed to. A salt mine. Hundreds of years old, maybe more. They crisscross the entire wilderness between District 3 all the way up to District 6. Place used to be called Ohio. Now it's just a wasteland. But the mines are still there.

PM: It appears that during the construction of the arena, the mine had gone unnoticed. Camden had experience with mines from 12, of course. We're not sure exactly what happened to him down there. All we know is that he survived there for two days.

HA: Meantime, the rest of the tributes were taking care of themselves. Boy from 6 was the last one standing, but he couldn't win because no one could find Camden. Not even the Capitol.

PM: They could trace his location through his tracker, of course, but when they showed up at his location, he was nowhere to be found. Even though their computers showed that they were right on top of them. Which technically, they were.

HA: Kid was in the mines beneath their feet the whole time.

PM: When Camden finally emerged, he was starving, half-crazed, torn nearly to pieces, and, most importantly, outside the arena.

HA: Boy from 6 died pretty quick after that. Capitol edited the footage to make it look like Camden had never left and was hiding in the same hole the whole time.

JM: So he cheated.

PM: Not technically. Camden, as far as we know, was never punished or blamed for walking out of the arena. It was considered a Gamemaker error.

JM: Well, I say he cheated. Sort of like you, Haymitch. Oh, and you Peeta. And Katniss. Where is Katniss?

HA: We prefer to call it 'taking creative liberties.'

* * *

_July 7__th_

_Have won the Games. Tell family I am so sorry. Tell them I didn't want to do it. Never wanted to do it. Had to. She was stealing my food. Had to._

JM: He still going on about that 8 girl?

HA: Some Victors take killing easier than others.

JM: So that's it? That's all there is?

HA: Yep. Camden was the first and only Victor from District 12 for forty years. He won by a fluke, like the rest of us. Went home to his mother and sister and brother. Never left the Victor's Village except for the Games each year.

PM: Did he mentor you?

HA: Nah. Died five years after. Ryla Donner was reaped for the Fifteenth Games. Died in the bloodbath. Camden came home, sat around in house for a week. They found him a week later. He grabbed the electric fence. While it was on.

PM: On purpose?

HA: What do you think?

PM: That's terrible. He sounds like a really troubled man. I wonder if things would have been different if he had lived. If 12 had had two mentors for all those years.

JM: I guess you should just be grateful the Edible Root hasn't gotten that looped up yet. Unless, of course, she has. That's your cue, Bread-boy.

PM: Not funny, Johanna.

JM: Uh-huh. Seen Katniss lately?

PM: Haymitch is watching her.

HA: I promised to keep an eye on her so you could go speak at that 'Liberation Day' rubbish of Paylor's. Now you're back. You should go see her.

PM: I have bread to make.

JM: Go visit Katniss.

**End notes:**


	12. Mags

**AN: It was refreshing to finally do a canon Victor, and I hope I gave Mags a bit of justice. I've received several PMs and reviews complaining that Mags was the Victor of the 9th Games. I have not been able to find any official source confirming such. Since the books make no mention of the exact Games Mags won or her exact age, I stand by the credibility of placing her in the 11th.**

On the morning of the eighth day, Fyr woke up and realized he had survived in the Games longer than anyone had in the previous ten years.

The problem was, he wasn't the only one.

Fyr curled back up in the sleeping bag he had been sent three days before. The ground was hard and smelled like pine needles. It smelled like home. He could almost, for a moment, believe that he was back in 7. If he ignored the boy from District 2. Marcellus never slept. Even when Fyr was on watch, he would feel the boy's eyes on his back. Watching. Waiting.

Fyr gave a shiver and pulled his cover tighter around him. He closed his eyes. The screams were softer now. For the first two nights in arena he hadn't been able to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes the screams would start again. The girl from 3. And another one. Her little friend. The one from 5 maybe? 6? It hadn't mattered. Fyr had panicked when he stumbled across them on the first day while searching for his allies and cut them down wildly before taking note of who they even were. He hadn't told his allies about it, but they had seen the blood on his axe and finally accepted him into the alliance without question.

Someone kicked him. Fyr spun over with a howl, grabbing at his axe, but it was just the boy from 1, grinning down at him.

"Bit jumpy there, huh Seven?"

"Shut it, One," said Fry. "Before I hit you with something a lot sharper than a foot."

"You ready for that, lumber ass? Gonna settle this now?" The boy from 1 ran his finger along the edge of the sword in his hand. "I'd love to bring you down a few levels before I kill you. You never should have been here in the first place."

"Enough," growled Marcellus. District 1 kept the sneer on his face but immediately took a couple steps back. "It's not time for that yet. Not till it's just us."

Just us. That's what the mentors had pounded into their heads in the days of training before the Games. Last year the alliance had dissolved early and the boy from 12, of all places, had won. The mentors made it clear. No one was to break the alliance until every other tribute was dead. It was the only way to ensure that the Victor was the one who deserved it most.

Fyr had been trying to persuade himself for two weeks now. That he would be the one coming home. Jules threw all his confidence behind him, and he must have been pretty persuasive in the Capitol because the parachutes hadn't stopped coming down.

He could do this. He would do this.

But one look at the massive boy from 2, the sneer on District 1's face, and Fyr got chills that had nothing to do with the morning breeze.

"Wake the others," said Marcellus. "It's time to move out."

In moments the boys from 4 and 9 were up, the camp was packed, and Fyr took his place third in line behind the boy from 4. Marcellus led, 1 brought up the rear.

The morning hunt was fruitless, and more importantly, it was eventless. It gave Fyr a bad feeling. The Gamemakers hadn't been lax in making the Games a living hell. From the torrential rainstorms that turned half the arena into a noxious swamp, to the wild dogs that prowled through the trees, howling through the night. The only part of the arena left to search were the forested hills west of the launch point. The five boys marched up and down, up and down, and then up and down again. All was silent.

The sun reached high noon and Marcellus held up his hand. The alliance sat down to rest below a rocky outcrop. The parachutes began falling. Marcellus got a roast beef sandwich and some type of red juice in a glass goblet. The boy from 1 received bread and cheese. Fyr got a bottle of water. His sponsor money was clearly running dry, but there was at least something left. The boys from 9 and 4 got nothing.

"How many left again?" asked 9 as he picked dirt from his fingernails.

Marcellus grunted. "Two."

"That oaf from Eight," said the boy from 1. "And the one girl. Can't remember the district."

"Mine," said the boy from 4, stabbing the ground with his spear.

"Tell us about her," said Marcellus.

The boy gulped. "She's just a jumped up little midget. Nothing special about her. Her dad works in the refinery where they make fish products."

"Not bad to look at either," said the boy from 9.

"Marcellus gave a snort. "Looks don't explain how she made it this far. What else, District 4?"

The boy shrugged "I dunno. She didn't seem too bright coming in. Didn't say much. Just sat around ignoring everything Seaward told her."

The boy from 1 laughed. "Daftness run in your district, 4?"

4 made a rude gesture back. "She was born in your district, One. Before the war. You think a girl from the fishing district is going to end up with a name like-"

The cannon boomed.

The five boys leapt to their feet, grabbing at their weapons. The sound echoed against the stones, then faded. No one moved. The tension grew thick as butter. Silence.

"May have solved our problem," muttered the boy from 9, but Fyr doubted it. He didn't voice his doubts, however, choosing instead to fall in line with the others and head back out across the hills.

One left. Just one. And then…then….well Fyr didn't know what would happen next. He knew what was supposed to happen. He didn't dare glance back at the boy from 9 for a reassuring nod. But they had talked. Late at night. About how they would take down Marcellus together before he had a chance to respond. How 4 would hold off 1 until Marcellus was finished and they could turn their attention to him. And then each other.

It was a good plan. It was his best chance. The only problem was, Fyr had heard the others talking too. And although he had been two far away to pick up on the whispers, he did have to guess what it was about.

Marcellus raised his hand and the others paused. The forest glade was silent around them. It was beautiful too. Sunlight streamed down in ribbons through the leaves. Mockingjays were singing. It was a good place to die, Fyr thought, then shook his head. Not yet.

A slight figure darted out from between the trees.

"Go!" shouted Marcellus. "Go, go, go!"

The alliance broke apart, sweeping through the ferns and underbrush as the girl dashed away from them. She was fast. The boys from 1 and 9 were faster. The managed to pass her up and circled around, driving her back towards the others.

"Don't let her get out!" shouted Marcellus.

The trees inhibited visibility, however, and the girl vanished. The five boys of the alliance slowly closed in, sweeping through the undergrowth with their blades. A branch snapped to Fyr's left and he glanced over for the briefest second. He looked back forward and barely ducked the foot flying at this face. It was enough time, however, for the girl to slip by and fly down the slope behind them.

"After her! Stupid bastard!"

The pursuit picked up again. To Fyr, it seemed to last hours, although it could only be a few minutes. His breath came in heaving gasps, his sides burned with pain, but he pushed on, knowing that if he fell behind Marcellus wouldn't hesitate to cut him down when nobody was watching his back.

A broad ravine stretched between two hills at the bottom of the slope. The girl stopped up short, not willing to leap down thirty feet and risk a broken leg or worse. Fyr was getting closer. He could see the look of desperation in the girl's eyes as she ran along the edge, her head desperately looking for an escape. Just when Fyr was certain she was about to give up, that she had nothing left, she gave a cry of relief and stumbled to a tree.

Fyr was less than fifty yards from her, but it was enough. In the space of a few seconds, the girl was flying across the ravine, clutching a rope tied to the bough of a massive oak stretched across the ravine. She gave a mad whoop of joy, landing lightly on her feet, leaving Fyr gaping after her, dumbfounded.

A massive blow knocked him to the ground.

"Move, lumber ass!"

Fyr stumbled up, clasping his ax to his chest. The other boys were ahead of him now, and Fyr stumbled after them. He could see where they were headed now. A massive tree had fallen across the ravine about a hundred yards up. It was the only way across. The fisher girl hadn't gotten away yet.

Marcellus went first, followed by the others. 9 was having some trouble. His eyes were closed, refusing to look down. Fyr had less issue, he had been climbing across trees since he could walk. They didn't dump you off on a whim. Trees were solid. Reliable. They didn't just sag and bend, threatening to throw those clambering across it into oblivion.

But this one did.

"Go back!" Fyr screamed as he felt the log give way. "Go back! Go back now!"

But it was too late. With a massive crack, the trunk split completely in two. If Fyr had his eyes open when been plummeting down, he may have seen the way the trunk had been cut through over the course of days, as if someone had planned this all along. Had wanted the alliance to cross on the weakened structure. Had lured them into it.

Fyr opened his eyes. A stabbing pain shot through one side. He was staring at his arm, at the pieces of bone sticking through his skin. He sat up, waves of pain washing over him. He retched up the water he had drank.

A cannon went off. The boy from 9 was lying nearby. He wasn't moving. The boy from 4 was holding his leg, screaming. He couldn't see either of his other allies.

Fyr tried to stand when a vile stench reached his nose. The boy from 1 was stumbling towards him, coated in a black, noxious substance. Fyr looked down at himself. The same tarlike pitch covered his body. His arm screamed with pain again, but through it Fyr muttered in confusion.

"Fish," he whispered. "It smells like…fish."

Fish oil. From the refineries of 4. A rather cheap sponsor present. But just enough to win the Games.

The scream stuck in Fyr's throat as the torch arched through the air and the bottom of the ravine blazed up into a fiery hell.

The boy from 1 screamed loud and long as the flames danced across his body. Adrenaline coursed through Fyr's bloodstream and he launched himself at the ravine wall. He didn't realize his arm was burning until his coat sleeve was nearly gone and then he began to scream.

It took too long for the cannon to go off. And then another.

Fyr was halfway up the ravine wall, delirious with pain, when a massive figure flew out of the fire and scrambled up like a wild animal. Marcellus's was naked, his back covered in searing red burn marks, but he screamed and yelled and cursed until he had nearly reached the top.

A silver spear flew across the ravine and slammed into its target. Easy as spearing a fish. Marcellus didn't even get a final cry of defiance as he fell back into the inferno.

The smoke seared Fyr's lungs. He couldn't feel either of his arms. He looked up, to were a face was watching him. He couldn't make out the features any more.

"Please," he said. "Just…quickly."

He got his wish. In another three seconds, it was over.

Two cannons sounded, followed by the trumpets.

A girl sat in the forest, burning leaves gliding through the air around her. Her face was streaked with dirt, her arms covered in bruises. Her silvery hair and strangely matching silver eyes gave her the look of a slightly mad wood sprite. She stood up, her last spear in her hand, looking down at the furnace she had created and then lifted her voice in a mad howl

"Hey! Old Boy's Club! How do you feel about that! You feeling good now! Suck it, you underbred sons of bitches!"

The voice of Augustine Pine echoed through the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen! I am pleased to announce the Victor of the Eleventh Annual Hunger Games! Magnificent Baxter-Dupont!"

"I told you my name is _Mags_! Eat spear you Capitol bastard! Say it with me! My. Name. Is. _Mags!_"

The spear flew up and hit the forcefield of the descending hovercraft. It didn't make a dent. Mags was lifted away, her hair streaming in the wind, her curses, insult, and howls of rage doing likewise.

* * *

Half a continent away, eight pairs of eyes stared at the screens in a richly appointed room. No one spoke. No one dared breathe. The large man with the copper beard stared at the slight girl and the charred and mangled bodies of what had minutes before been a successful alliance.

Ahenobarbus smiled.

"Oh, I like her," he said, and took another sip of wine.


	13. Bovina

District 10 is always hot. It's always bright. And it's always dusty.

Of the three, Bovina hated the dust the most.

It got everywhere. In her hair, her eyes, in the creases of her new clothes – gifts from the Capitol, of course. It caked onto the shawl wrapped around her shoulders, blunting the colors of the once brightly woven patterns. The shawl had been hers since she was old enough to walk. Her _abuela_ had made it for her, the one who died not long after the war. Her mother had brought it to her in the Justice Building, tossed it to her without meeting her eyes, and left. Bovina had carried it into the arena. It had never left her shoulders.

She used to complain about the dust, but now it hid the bloodstains on the shawl that even her prep team wasn't able to fully wash out, and Bovina was grateful.

She walked down the main street in Settlement 2, the shawl pulled over her head so she didn't have to see the stares. Even the soft breeze picked up the dust and threw it into her face. Not for the first time she wished she had a mare to ride in on, or even a mule. It's not like she couldn't afford it. She shook her head. That would just call more attention to her and attention was the last thing she wanted from the inhabitants of Settlement 2.

The main street was lined with the old wooden shops and saloons Bovina had grown up among, their paint peeling away, the porches pale with the grit and years of harsh sunlight. Settlement 2 had existed for decades or longer, back when it had a name, now long forgotten. More wood-frame houses stretched out behind the stores. The Justice Building loomed in the square a quarter mile down. Behind her, the concrete and steel processing plants marked a scar on the landscape. The glass dome of the genetic lab where her father worked was even more out of place.

Bovina turned a corner and walked between the houses. Few people were about, and even less spared her a glance. It was time for the evening meal, and the children had been shooed inside, the laundry brought in from the lines, dusty boots left on the outside mats as the men and older boys returned from work. Bovina was alone. Almost.

"Hey pretty girl, you looking for a bite to eat? Bet you wouldn't say no to some nice big sausages."

Bovina didn't scream, but it was a close thing. She jumped though, and spun around in panic. Even after five months she couldn't help it. A man was sitting on his doorstep, leering at her through bloodshot eyes and missing teeth. Bovina's shawl fell down around her shoulders and the man stared at her face, his eyes widening. He spat on the ground, glaring at her until Bovina pulled the soft cloth back over her hair and turned back, her shoulders shaking.

It was no more than she was used to. It was not more than she should have expected.

_No more than she deserved._

The house three down from the end looked no different from any around it. Same grey wood, same old tree gasping for life in the front yard. But to Bovina, it was everything. Everything, and not much.

She pulled her boots off and shook the dust from the shawl before walking into the house she grew up in.

"Veala, I swear, you should have been back an hour ago. When I say don't dawdle after school, I mean-" Her mother stormed into the common room from the kitchen and pulled up as if she had seen an ancestor's spirit.

Bovina tried to smile. "Hello, Mama," she said.

Her mother stood rigid. "Bovina." Her black hair and olive skin screamed out her heritage, but there was no trace of an Anasazi accent in her voice. "What are you doing here?"

"I came for dinner," Bovina said, pulling off the shawl. "I haven't seen you since-" _Since the train pulled into the station_, she almost said. "For a long time."

Her mother's lips pursed. "Well. You can help set the table. And put away that filthy thing, I just swept."

Bovina nodded and folded the shawl, putting it on the window sill next to where an old woman was sitting in the last rays of sunlight, knitting. "Hello _abuela_," she said as she bent down and kissed her cheek.

The old woman didn't look at her. "Call me 'Grandmother,'" she said, and continued her knitting.

"Ramon! Autumn!" Mama's voice screeched as Bovina started setting out knives. "Get in here!"

Two blurs of black hair and smiles thundered into to common room. The twins yelped with glee when they saw their sister, wrapping their arms around her and trying to drag her down to the floor. Bovina almost smiled until she caught a glimpse of Mama's glare.

"Get off! Both of you. Sit at the table or your papa will hear it!"

The twins shrugged off and dragged their feet to the table. Autumn curled her nose as she played with her cup, but Ramon kept sneaking little smiles.

A dark shadow fell over the room as Bovina brought out the tamales and corn bread.

"You're here."

Her papa loomed in the doorway, his uniform crisp and stainless as always. Dust didn't dare cling to Ray Martinez. His dark eyes bore into Bovina.

"I've come for dinner," she said. She managed not to duck her head as she had always been taught. She didn't live under this roof anymore.

Ray's eyes searched the room and landed on Mama. "Why is she here? I told you not to-"

"She didn't know," said Bovina as she took the pot of ground beef and beans from Mama and placed in on the table. "I wanted to see the twins. And everyone."

She noticed her sister Veala slip in through the door, unnoticed amidst the tension. Bovina thought she might have at least gotten a grateful nod, but even Veala gave her a glare before she slipped into the children's sleeproom to wash the kohl from around her eyes.

Long moments stretched as Ray folded his arms and glared at his Victor-daughter. Finally he peeled off his jacket and tossed it to his wife.

"You may stay for dinner," he said before marching into the tiny bathroom.

Veala slipped back into the common room, the forbidden kohl now gone. She sat in her usual place beside Bovina. In years past, there would have been pinching, tickling, poking, and giggles behind hands. Now Veala sat as still as a statue, as though any movement might set off a stick of dynamite.

Ray was the last to sit, except for Grandmother who never left the corner, not even to sleep. His eyes moved from one face to another. They seemed to linger on Bovina until he said, "Let's say grace."

The family dutifully clasped hands and bowed their heads and Ray blessed the meal.

"Gracious Capitol, thank you for this food which we have received from your bountiful hand. Beloved President Lucius, look with mercy upon your children and keep us in your faith. Remind us of our duties and keep us grateful, healthy, and _loyal_, so your blessings never cease. Amen."

"Amen," intoned the rest, some louder than others.

The meal passed in silence. Ray was served first, then the rest in order of age. Any talking beyond "Pass the tamales" was swiftly clipped off. Mama mentioned getting new shoes before the Victory Tour and swiftly clamped her mouth shut when she saw the dark look on her husband's face.

Still, Bovina held out hope that she might spend a couple of hours in her family's presence without a notable incident. It wasn't to be.

"Why haven't you been here, 'Vina?" asked Autumn during a long lull. "I've missed you!"

"Autumn, shush," said Mama, her hands clamped around her chipped mug of tea.

"But she hasn't! Where did you go?"

"I've been very busy, Autumn," said Bovina, her hands wringing her napkin below the table. "I've been working for the Capitol."

Ray gave a grunt but didn't correct her. The moment passed.

"Do you still have the pretty dresses, Bovina?" Autumn pressed on. "I liked the one with the pretty blue sparkle stones. Do you still have that one? Elsa says it looked stupid but _I _told her my sister was _beautiful _in it."

"Autumn, shut up," growled Veala. "No one cares about your stupid playmates."

"You're just jealous because all your dresses are ugly, Veala! I saw you yesterday with your reaping dress. Twirling around and putting that yucky black stuff around your eyes like 'Vina had during the parade!"

"Shut up!" Veala lept to her feet. "You take that back, you stupid little liar!"

"Girl, sit down," growled Ray.

"No!" Veala stamped her foot. "I'm sick of it! I'm sick at the way people look at us, like we're traitors too! It's not our names what got picked! Brash nearly broke up with me, but I told him none of us had seen her since the cameras left, that we didn't want anything to do with her!"

Bovina clenched her jaw, her hand gripped around her knife. The beans and beef turned to dust in her mouth.

"I'm tired of the looks and the whispers. Just tell this one to stay away and be done with it!" Veala flipped her hair out of her face and kicked Bovina's chair for good measure.

It was such a little thing, something she had done hundreds of times, something Bovina would have barely noticed six months ago. But now the quick movement and the sudden jolt sent her leaping out of her chair, her knife pressed against Veala's throat. Ramon and Autumn were screaming, Mama was crying something, Ray was roaring, but all Bovina could see was the girl from District 6 who had come creeping up in the night, and the boy from 4 with blood gushing from his mouth, and Veala's screams were the first kills all over again, echoing through the arena as Bovina had fled for her life.

She lowered the knife. Looked at the horrorstruck face of her older sister. Turned and faced the silent table.

"I'm…I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean…"

"Get out." Ray's voice was a mountain crumbling down towards her. "Get out of my house, girl."

"Mama. I –"

"You need to leave." The black-haired woman stepped over and took Ray's hand. "My husband's right. You don't have a place here. You never should have come."

Bovina looked around, trying to find a face that didn't radiate hatred or horror. She found none.

"_Monstruo," _a voice hissed from the corner. Her grandmother eyes gleamed from the corner. "_Traidor_"

Bovina spun around and fled. She stumbled to the door, then turned and snatched up her shawl. Throwing the door open, she snatched up her boots and fled into the night without looking back.

The words chased her down the street of Establishment 2. _Monstruo. Traidor._ Monster. Traitor. Anasazi words, the worst insult her grandmother could give.

_Monstruo. Traidor._

Settlement 2 was long behind her by the time Bovina sat down to pull her boots on. The sun was setting behind the red mountains, stretching long shadows across the flatlands where cattle were grazing. Bovina closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the livestock and breathing in the heavy scents of grass and manure, as she tried to blot her papa's voice from her mind. She almost missed the roar of the motorbike, and by the time she opened her eyes and stood up the patrol had caught up to her.

"What are you doing here girl? You've got no business leaving the Settlement this late." The Peacekeeper glared at her from his motorbike, his fingers twitching towards his belt.

Bovina swallowed down the lump of fear that the Peacekeepers had produced ever since she was a little girl. She wasn't some terrified half-Anasazi schoolgirl. Not anymore.

"I have every right to walk down the street, no matter what hour it is," she said. "I'm going home."

The Peacekeeper sneered. "I'm sure. What, some uptowner get a taste for an Anasazi slut? Soliciting for food or money is illegal, you know that. Turn out your pockets, bitch, and be quick."

Bovina pulled down her shawl, letting the black hair she inherited from her mother pour over her shoulders as she stared down the Peacekeeper with wide-set dark eyes. "Say that one more time, I dare you, and we'll see what the Capitol has to say once I get back to the Village and give them a call."

The Peacekeeper froze, staring at her with his mouth slightly agape. "You looked prettier on television," he muttered, then revved up the engine. "Get on, miss. I'll escort you home."

Bovina pulled the shawl around her shoulders. "Thank you. I'll walk."

"Oh, I insist. Streets aren't safe this time of night, and you're still a couple miles from the Victor's Village."

"I'm sure Bovina can handle herself in the case of an emergency." A new voice chimed out from behind the pair and Bovina's shoulders sagged in relief. "But just in case, I'd be more than happy to walk her home myself."

The Peacekeeper turned and faced the man who had come up the street behind them and was now standing with arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Bovina only barely caught his wink.

"Sir, you're not authorized to –"

"I got Bovina through the arena safely, I think I can keep an eye on her on an empty road. Besides, I need to talk with her. The Victory Tour's in a month, after all."

The Peacekeeper's lip curled. "Fine. But watch yourself, old man. Not everyone is as lenient as I am."

"I'm sure we're all grateful that a man of your noble character is patrolling the dangerous streets of Texa- sorry, _District 10 _to keep us all safe."

The Peacekeeper gave one more scowl, but offered no further response. With a roar of the engine, he blasted down the road, leaving the dust swirling behind him.

"Raoul," said Bovina as her old mentor fell in step beside her. "Thanks for the help."

Raoul laughed. "You didn't need it. You'll learn quick enough. I suppose more than a decade of keeping your head down around those _culeros_ sticks for a while, but there's a few hundred of them and only one District 10 Victor, and they know that."

Bovina smiled. Smiles came easily around Raoul. He had made her laugh on the train through her tears, and every smile in her interview came only because she was speaking to him in her mind. She snuck a glance at her old mentor as they strolled past another livestock enclosure. Raoul was at least a couple decades older than her, but handsome in his own way, his Anasazi features matching a smile that was too large for his face. He had been a rebel back in the war, but she didn't know what he did. That was something he never spoke of. All she knew is that his young family had vanished without a trace and that he had spent the past twelve years in prison below the Justice Building, released every year to mentor two more kids to their deaths.

Until this year. The year Bovina's victory had freed him. Now it would be her turn to take kids to the Capitol, watch them be primped and paraded and slaughtered. Raoul had promised to help her through it. She had lost track of the times she had fled to his little shack between Settlement 2 and the Victor's Village, just to talk and hear the sound of his voice telling her it was all going to be okay. Bovina had no doubt he knew where she had been tonight, but she waited for him to bring it up.

"So…" Raoul cleared his throat as he kicked a stone down the road. "You saw them then?"

"Yes."

"….and?"

"It went exactly as you said it would."

Raoul sighed. "I'm sorry. I tried to warn you. I told you it would be hard for them."

"I know. I just had to see it happen for myself."

"_Bastardos"_ he muttered. "When did it go bad?"

"Somewhere between the tamales and holding a knife to Veala's throat."

"Ah. So very bad."

"Very.

Raoul didn't say anything after that, but Bovina could imagine epithets the Anasazi man was dying to use. District 10 was technically 'neutral' during the Dark Days, but only because they had been so torn between the two factions. The Settlers, people like her father who mainly worked directly for the Capitol, had wanted to remain loyal. The Anasazi, the collection of olive-skinned, black-haired tribes and clans, had risen up. So instead of fighting the Capitol or the rebels, District 10 had fought each other. Victory had gone to the Settlers, barely, and they quickly aligned the district with the Capitol forces. Soon after, District 13 was obliterated and the Games began. The Settlers were given privileged status in the District, and the rebels were driven back into their adobe slums.

"They called me _monstruo," _she said, blinking back tears. _"Traidor."_

Raoul's shoulder's stiffened. "It's only been a few months. They need to get used to what happened. They don't really mean it."

"They do." The bitterness tinged Bovina's like a bad onion in soup. "You know what the Settlers are like. The one thing that they have in common with the Anasazi is that they don't believe in coincidences."

Each time two more children were selected for the Hunger Games, Bovina and her siblings received the same lesson at school. Only bad children go to the Games. The Capitol knows who's thinking rebellious thoughts. If your name is pulled out of the reaping bowl, it's because you didn't place your hand over your heart when singing the national anthem, or made silly faces when President Lucius spoke on mandatory viewing. Maybe you even thought the Games were bad, cruel, unnecessary. The Capitol always knows.

A Settler boy had been reaped a few years ago, the only one in the first decade of the Games. His family had been ostracized, his siblings left alone in the schoolyard or pelted with mud, his father and mother demoted, their hours raised and their pay cut. The same would have happened to Bovina's family, if she hadn't come back.

"It's not easy for them," Bovina said. "It can't have been easy. Everyone pointing and whispering. Papa's job is important to him. They suspended him until the Games were over."

"That's not an excuse," said Raoul, his voice harder than Bovina had ever heard it. "Among the Anasazi, family is first. Above all else."

"Maybe that's why they didn't win. If family came before freedom."

Bovina regretted the words almost as soon as she said them, but Raoul only clenched his jaw and kept silent as they turned a corner and walked through the gate into the Victor's Village.

It was beautiful, that much could be said. Lonely, with eleven empty houses, but beautiful. The Village was built with adobe, but each house was a villa with a red-tiled roof and tended gardens. One of the girls who served as a housekeeper held the door open as Bovina walked through the entrance courtyard. Before she could enter, Raoul took her arm.

"I'm sorry for what happened," he said. "It's not fair to you. And I don't want to you be alone tonight."

Bovina gave a small smile. "I'll be fine, Raoul."

"No. You won't be. I'll be back tonight. I'm bringing Bessie and we're going out."

"Bessie? Your…girlfriend?"

Raoul gave her that too-big smile. "You'll see." And then he was back out the door and gone.

"Draw a bath," Bovina told the girl, who nodded and retreated to the back of the villa. In a few minutes Bovina was sinking down into a bath of bubbles and scented oils. Another girl brought in towels, giving a small curtsy when she left. Bovina still wasn't used to being waited on hand and foot, it reminded her too much of the Capitol. But the two girls had shown up at her door two days after she came back, their cheeks hollow, rags falling down around their shoulders, asking if she had any work needed done. Bovina, haunted by nightmares and intensely lonely, hadn't been able to turn them away.

She might have napped. When she opened her eyes dusk had fallen completely and there was an unearthly roar outside. She leaped out of the tub, water splashing over the side. She was wrapping a towel around herself when the door flew open and Raoul grinned at her.

"Almost ready? I want you to meet Bessie!"

"Raoul!" she screamed, clutching the towel closer. "I'm not dressed!"

His eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. "But…I saw you in remake and you didn't-"

"That was different! Out! Now!"

Hands dragged Raoul out of the bathroom. "Wear something nice!" he called back as the door slammed shut.

Her housekeeper looked at her in horror, but Bovina was laughing.

She chose a deep red dress, beaded in the Anasazi style, and matching patent leather boots her stylist had given her. At the last moment she snatched her shawl up from the floor and ran out of the house to the dirt cul-de-sac. Raoul was waiting for her, his hand resting on the hood of a rusted, banged-up truck, an enraptured look on his face.

"Isn't she a beauty? Gave her to old man Hick right before the war ended, didn't need it in prison after all. Tracked her down last week, bought her back. She still knows her daddy."

"Um…she's…beautiful," said Bovina. "But why-"

Raoul nodded towards her two servants. "They still have work to do tonight?"

"No, they-"

"Get in _niñas, _we're going home!"

The girls whooped and climbed into the truck bed behind them. Before Bovina could say another word Raoul had helped her into the passenger seat and Bessie was roaring out of the Victor's Village.

"Raoul!" she screamed over the sound of the engine and wind. "Where are we going?"

Raoul just winked as the girls behind them laughed in delight. Bovina understood the feeling. She had only taken two car rides before, both after the reaping and this was nothing like that. It was exhilarating, soaring down the street, past barns and pastures and herds of livestock. The lights of Settlement 2 disappeared behind them as the much brighter, much more erratic lights from the slums spread out before them. It was over too fast. Raoul slowed down as they puttered in among the adobe hovels where so many of District 10's inhabitants lived. People were staring at them and Bovina shrunk back into the darkness of the cab, but there were no accusatory glares or contemptuous spits among them, just curiosity.

One of the girls banged the side of the truck with her palm and Raoul slowed. The girls leapt out and skipped to a low shack where an old woman embraced them in welcome. Bovina watched them until they turned a corner and Raoul finally pulled to a halt.

"We're here!" he said, and jumped out, coming around to help her down.

Bovina looked at the large, low adobe building they had parked next to. Golden light shown through the door and laughter echoed inside.

Bovina raised an eyebrow. "A cantina? I thought they weren't allowed, that the Capitol had forbidden-"

Raoul placed a finger on his lips. "What the Capitol doesn't know won't hurt anyone. Besides, Peacekeepers need a place to unwind too. Don't worry," he said as he saw Bovina stiffen. "They're a different sort down here."

Nevertheless, Bovina wrapped pulled her shawl tight around her as she followed her mentor through the door into the cantina. The establishment was brightly lit and homey, the walls brightly painted and woven rugs over the hardwood floor. It was about half full, an even mix of local laborers and Peacekeepers half out of their uniforms. A few individuals gave shouts of greeting as Raoul led her to a back table. He waved at them before sitting Bovina down on the blackwood bench.

"Bovina, this is Julius and Polina." The Peacekeepers at the table gave her a friendly nod. "Not bad folk, as far as District 2 _bastardos_ go." The older woman called Polina gave a laugh, Julius made a rude gesture with a grin. "I'll get us drinks."

Bovina wanted to cry out, to tell him to not leave her here alone, but he was gone. She sank back into the shadows, not looking at those around her, even as she felt their stares.

"You were great, by the way," Julius said with a grin. "Watching you, I mean. When that District 6 bitch came, I thought you were a goner, I was sure you were asleep, but then when you –"

"Julius. Shut up," Polina said with a glare. "Don't mind him, sweetheart," the woman said as she patted her arm. "He's a fool boy. You did what you needed to."

"Thank you," whispered Bovina and pulled her shawl up tighter. She wished Raoul would get back. The tightness was clenching in on her chest, a shout of panic rising in her throat.

A dark shape shuffled towards them. From beneath layers of dirty cloth, an old woman peered out at Bovina. Her eyes widened, she lurched forward. Bovina leaned forward, trying to catch her as she fell, but the woman was on her knees. The musky scent of unwashed body and long years of field work filled Bovina's nostrils, and she coughed.

The woman took Bovina's hand in her own and kissed it. "_Maria,_" she whispered. "_Maria,"_

Bovina recoiled back, looking at the Peacekeepers in panic, but they gave her a bemused look.

"Grandmother, don't," she whispered. "You mustn't say that."

The word was one she knew from her mama. Bovina didn't know exactly what it meant, only that it was forbidden. It was somewhere between 'mother' and 'goddess,' and Mama had said that _Maria_ was just that, a goddess of sorts who had watched over them. But the word was taboo, at least in the Settlements. Only the Capitol watched over them. To call someone _Maria_ was treason.

"_Maria,_ thank you, thank you."

"Please, don't," Bovina said, her eyes filling with tears. "I've done nothing."

"_Maria,_ my grandson. He is so little. He was sick. No food, nothing, my son could not save him."

"I'm so sorry, grandmother, but I can't-"

"You save him, _Maria._ You save him. With good milk and oil and real bread."

"I don't understand," whispered Bovina. "I have never met your family."

"You won, goddess. You won and the parcels came. The good food. It saved him. You saved the boy."

Parcel Day. Bovina had almost forgotten about the presents of food that came for the district each month.

"Grandmother, I-"

The old woman kissed her hand again and then drew it inside her rags. She pulled out a long length of red silk, embroidered with gold thread. It was probably worth more than her whole house.

"For you, _Maria._ Thank you."

Bovina gripped the silk in her hands. It was smooth and cool, like the woman's hands. "I can't accept this. Please, don't-"

"Bovina? Is everything alright?" Raoul stood over them, holding two large mugs of frothing beer. He looked at Bovina, then at the woman and the red silk and everything seemed to click into place. "Grandmother, it's late, let me help you home."

"I am fine," said the woman, but she allowed Raoul to help her to her feet. "I must go. Must tell the others. _Maria_ has come."

With surprising speed, the woman tottered out of the cantina, leaving the red silk twisted in Bovina's hands.

"Thanks for your help," Raoul said to their companions as he slammed the mugs down and sat.

Julius shrugged. "She was doing just fine with her adoring public." He gave a drunken hiccup.

"I'm sorry," said Raoul softly. He pressed the mug into her hands. "Drink. You'll feel better."

Bovina took a deep swallow. The beer was heady and cold and tasted of onions somehow. She liked it.

"I should have warned you. The Anasazi like you. I thought maybe a few friendly faces might-"

"_Maria!"_

A girl about her own age launched herself over the bar and fell in front of Bovina. Like the old woman she kissed her hands, tears falling down her cheeks.

"_Maria,_ you've come! It's really you!"

"Please," said Bovina, looking desperately at Raoul. Her mentor nodded, and Bovina fell silent.

"_Maria,_ I'm Korsa. I'm the oldest of nine. My parents work in the pig sties. I take tesserae for all of us."

Even the Peacekeepers flinched. Bovina brushed the hair out of the girl's eyes.

"I'm so sorry, I wish there was something I could do for-"

"You have _Maria!_ It is my last year next summer! I don't have to take the tesserae this year! The food comes every month! You've saved me!" The girl rose and kissed her cheeks. "Thank you! Please, it's all I have, but take it!"

Bovina looked down at the small stone pressed into her palm. She recognized the deep blue of turquoise.

"Korsa, I can't accept-"

"_Maria! Maria!"_

There were more hands now reaching out to her. More kisses. More shouts as the cantina filled. People were flooding in, craning their necks for a look, pressing around her, more every second. Bovina called out for Raoul, but he was gone. She took a gulp of beer and the lightness rushed to her head.

"_Maria, Maria!"_

Her hands were stroked and kissed. Fruit, flowers, and small gifts filled her lap. She gave up trying to say no, and just smiled and cried and squeezed hands as the voices raised around her.

"_Maria! _Goddess! Thank you! We're proud! Take this! Thank you! _Maria!_"

"Please!" she finally yelled. "I need air! I need to get out!"

"Out!" someone called. "Bring her out!"

And in a moment, Bovina was hoisted onto the shoulders of strong men and women and carried out of the cantina into the warm night. A bonfire had been lit in the street and people were clustered around, drinking and shouting and holding up their hands to her.

"Raoul!" she cried. "Raoul!"

"I'm here, _Maria!"_ His voice was enough. "I'm here!"

"Music!" someone called. "A song for _Maria!"_

The music started, a wild Anasazi tune, and soon people were jumping, dancing, leaping in the streets. Someone pulled out a whole pig, no doubt a gift from Parcel Day, and in minutes it was slow roasting over another fire. Food and drink were pressed into Bovina's hands as she was set down.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to dance.

A young man pulled her into the dervish and she screamed with delight as they spun around. He passed her off to a middle-aged rancher, then to Polina, then to one of her housekeepers, then to a boy no older than six. Bovina danced and danced. She ate roast ham under the stars and let a massive, shirtless ranch hand throw her into the air and catch her. She kissed old men and spun children around by their hands.

"Raoul!" she gasped as her mentor pulled her into the dance. "I want to buy a horse. No, I want to buy a car!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Not much you can find around here as far as cars go. Most of them need a lot of work."

"Then I'll learn. You can teach me. I need something to do without school or work. I think I'd like that. Fixing cars."

Raoul laughed. "Don't let the Capitol get wind of it or every Victor will be coming up with their own hobby."

"Let them. As long as mine means I get to spend more time with you."

And then she was dancing with Raoul, and she wouldn't let go. They spun, faster and faster. He looked at her with an eager gaze, eager and hungry and filled with desire as the moon shone from his bright eyes.

The shawl fell from her shoulders and she didn't even notice.

And all around her, the people of District 10 shouted _"Maria! Maria! Maria!"_

* * *

**AN: Long one, but I really enjoyed this chapter. I've always subscribed to the fanon that puts District 10 around the southern United States and Mexico. The two social classes were actually influenced by the first **_**Hunger Games**_** film were the girl from 10 was light skinned but the boy was Hispanic. I thought exploring that might yield an interesting dynamic.**


	14. Woof

The five times throughout his life that Woof Barton lost his temper.

#1. He was seven, and Da was screaming again. He was screaming at Ma. It was usually at Ma. Not always though. Sometimes it was at Adella, or Mara. More often it was at him.

Ma was crying. She was trying to walk out of the apartment, but Da was blocking her way. Woof didn't want her to go. Adella was under the mattress, holding her ears and singing as loud as she could. Mara sat in a corner, staring. Ma finally got around Da and she had a bag in her hands, and she said something about going to _her _Ma's. Woof wanted to come too. Gamma never screamed or cried and her apartment wasn't littered with empty bottles and stale pieces of tesserae bread that the mice would come out at night to nibble.

Ma walked out but Da followed her, and there were angry shouts coming from the other apartments as their neighbors were disturbed from their meals and rest, but Da kept screaming. He never stopped until he ran out of energy, and that only happened when he left for hours and hours and would come back at night with his shirt on backwards and smelling like icky-water. He didn't know Woof watched him, but he did.

Woof watched now. He peered around the doorframe. Da was holding onto Ma's arm as she tried to tug away. She was standing at the top of the stairs that lead to the outside door, Da was above her on the landing. He raised his hand. It came down, once, twice. He raised it a third time.

Ma always told him not to hit his sisters, and he didn't, but at school he would punch anyone who teased them or pulled their hair or made fun of their shoes that were just bundles of wrapped up paper. He knew Da wasn't like those kids, he was bigger, and meaner, and he was _Da._

But right now, he didn't care. And maybe if he could get Da to stop hitting her, maybe Ma wouldn't go away and they could all sit down around the cookfire and sing work songs like they sometimes did.

"You leave her alone!" Woof screamed, and his tiny hands hit the small of Da's back and Da fell. He tumbled down the stairs, over and over and over again like the one time Woof had thrown Adella's doll down the hill, and he was laying at the bottom and he wasn't getting up and why was his head turned like that?

Ma was screaming. She was looking at him and screaming.

"I didn't mean it!" Woof cried, the tears streaming down his face. He stared at Da, and Ma was still keening, and his sister's peered around the doorway, joined by their neighbors.

"I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!"

He was still yelling the words as he ran out of the flat into the rain and mud of Fog Town.

"I didn't mean it!"

But he had.

* * *

#2. He was eleven, and he was hungry. The big oak tree hid him from the other kids, all in their clean dresses and ribbons and giggles. He had never been up here before. The Clear was for the rich kids, the kids whose parents didn't have to work in the factories and the textile mills and the warehouses. Townies didn't go to the Clear, not if they wanted to keep all their bones unbroken. Four years on the streets hadn't disabused Woof of that particular fear. He could handle the street gangs, and the leering warehouse overseers who let him sleep in the warm if he stole a few sesterces and handed them over. But there were Peacekeepers up here, and they were mean.

But he was so hungry.

They were having a garden party. Woof recognized one of them. She was the Capitol liaison's daughter, he was pretty sure. She was always on the stage on Reaping Day, smiling and waving at the cameras with that simpering, smug look on her face because s_he_ was safe. Maybe it was her birthday. Or maybe it was just for the Games, which were playing on a screen near the table. Woof was looking at the food. He smelled cookies and chocolate, and there were strawberries and cake and orange juice.

Best not to get greedy. There was bread too, long loaves of soft, white bread with seeds and cheese baked into them, and that's what Woof went for. The children screamed when he dashed out from the tree. One of the adults made a grab for him, there were more shouts, and then the loaf was in Woof's hand and he sprinted down the hill.

There were heavy footsteps behind him, and the voices of men, shouting and shouting. Woof ran like he had never run in his life, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his sides aching. The slums of Fog Town rose up to embrace him, and the twisting alleys were his cloak, the empty doorways his shield. The footsteps disappeared, and Woof allowed himself a chuckle and sunk his teeth into the warm bread.

He was crossing the bridge when they caught him. Not the Peacekeepers. Morlan and his crew. The bridge was their territory. Woof didn't have a choice though. The Community Home was on the other side of the river and Woof had kept more than half the loaf for Mara and Adella. Morlan held up his hand as he stumbled across, trying to find a way around him and his three mates. There was none.

"Gotta pay the toll, squidge," said Morlan, smacking a piece of chew-snap between his teeth. "What you got in there?" He pointed at the lump in Woof's jacket.

"Nuthin," muttered Woof, but of course it was no use. Two of the boys held Woof's arms and the third ripped the bread out and tossed it to Morlan.

"Mmmmm, yum," said Morlan as he bit into the soft bread that Woof had stolen, that Woof had risked his life for.

"That's mine! You give it back, slummah!"

Morlan laughed and ripped off another piece. "Gotta pay the toll, squidge. Let him go boys."

His crew laughed and threw Woof to the ground before stomping off. Woof's vision clouded over. His hands shook. It was his bread. His, and they had taken it.

"Give! It! Back!" he screamed and launched himself onto Morlan's shoulders. The boy was three years older than him, and bigger by a foot, but Woof was possessed by that insane strength born of righteous anger. He was pulling hair and punching flesh, and the others were grabbing him and he was biting at their hands. They dragged him off and Morlan was coming for him, his fist raised, and Woof kicked out at him. His feet caught his chest, just right, and Morlan flew back. He hit the railing and flipped over, and all Woof heard was a long cry and a splash.

The hands around him went limp as the boys stared at him in shock. Woof ran. And then he doubled back and snatched up the battered and dusty scrap of bread from where it had fallen. And then he ran.

He didn't even bother telling himself he hadn't meant it. He had.

* * *

#3. He was eighteen and he was sitting on his chair in CGN studios, fiddling with the collar of his ridiculous shirt. His stylist had decided to showcase all of District 8's selection of fine fabrics, so there he was in velvet pants, orange silk shirt, green linen coat, samite collar, and lace ruff. He picked at a loose thread, fuming inside even as Augustine Pine called his name and he stomped up to the front of the stage.

"Woof Barton! Welcome, welcome! Are you excited to be here?"

Woof snorted and glared. Augustine didn't miss a beat.

"I understand that you've led quite a rough-and-tumble life before you got here! Care to tell us about all those run-ins with Peacekeepers?"

"No."

"Oh, it's alright, it alright m'boy! Don't have to worry about consequences here! Besides, our viewers love a bad boy!" He winked at the studio audience and they laughed uproariously.

Woof crossed his arms. "Your viewers can go shank themselves."

The smile slid off Augustine's face for the briefest of moments before he found his face again and smiled hugely. "Excitable boy here! Now, surely you don't mean that, buddy! We're all excited to have you hear and-"

"Oh shut the #%*# up you &#*$ clown!" The audience was stunned into silence, Augustine was trying to find words, and Woof felt his anger build up and he grabbed at it.

"Yeah, you're all excited. To see me get %#& gutted. Well, %&$# you, you stupid clown and #& % my stylist, and this damned lace and $&#% this damned interview. Just give me a knife and put me in the damn arena already!" He didn't bother waiting for the bell signaling that his three minutes were up. He marched back to his seat and snapped at the girl from 9 to get her stupid ass up there before he smacked her.

"Mr. Pine, he didn't mean it. The stress of the Games and everything, he's had such a long week, he really didn't mean it!" Woof's mentor was still repeating the line three days after the Games began, but she wasn't kidding anyone. Pine, the audience, the whole Capitol knew that Woof Barton had meant every word he said. And they loved him for it.

Everyone loves a bad boy.

* * *

#4. He was eighteen, but that's all he was sure of at this point. It was hard to keep track of time in the arena. Woof had been there ten days. Eleven? No, ten, he was pretty sure.

The arena this year was an ancient pine forest. It snowed at night, and sometimes during the day, blanketing the arena in drifts piled higher than Woof's head. There were only a few left at this point. Woof had lost count of how many. At least there was no need of a water source, the tributes just stuffed snow in their mouths. Food was scarce, though. Woof didn't understand where all his parachutes were coming from. He didn't think people would like him. He had meant for them to not like him.

He sat in his shelter beneath the massive limbs of one of the pine trees. He sort of liked it here. It was quiet. No textile mills roaring at all hours of the day and night. Peaceful. The air was better too, clean and fresh. And the snow was pure white, not the mushed up filth that landed in the streets of District 8. He had decided he liked snow. Who would've thought he'd end up liking his arena better than his own district.

He heard the soft thump in the snow as a parachute landed outside his shelter. Something hot sent steam into the air and Woof's stomach rumbled noisily. He climbed out of his thermal sleeping bag and checked to see that his knives were stuck into his boots before stepping out into the harsh sunlight.

His parachute was gone.

Tracks, widespread and messy with desperation led deeper into the forest. The pounding rage built up behind his forehead and he pulled out his knives and launched himself after the thief.

It was his parachute! It was _his_!

The thief had chosen speed over stealth, and the tracks never disappeared. Woof was lucky that the pine trees weren't built for climbing. He heard footsteps. Heavy breathing. The tracks grew erratic, dodging this way and that. Woof found his parachute thrown aside between the trees, the hot stew staining the snow. His rage built. The thief had stolen his food, and then _wasted _it. It was his, and now it was no one's.

On a hunch, Woof clambered up the side of a drift, the soft snow muffling the sound. He saw the red coat below him. It's owner stumbled and fell and Woof jumped. He landed on the boy's back, and felt the bones break, but he was still holding his knives and screaming "It was mine! It was mine! It was mine!" as he stabbed down again and again and again.

The rage subsided, and Woof stared down at the broken body of the boy from 4, the handsome boy that had smiled and laughed and charmed so many of the other tributes. He had sat with Woof at lunch one day, trading bawdy jokes and ranking the girl tributes. He didn't understand. He was chasing a thief. Not this boy. Not this one. He wasn't…it wasn't meant to be…

"I didn't mean it," Woof mumbled, even as the trumpets sounded and the hovercraft came to carry him away. "I didn't mean it."

It wasn't a lie this time. Not that it made much difference to anyone.

* * *

#5. He was seventy-nine, and he was sitting in the Control Center for the sixty-first time in his life. He had not lost his temper in all that time. All he had to do was think about the fisher boy again and the rage melted away like the snow had under his warm body. Woof didn't get angry. He got upset, bitter, cold, but he never got angry. Everyone knew that.

But now, he was staring at the screen and Triss was gasping for breath. Cecelia was beside him, her body shaking as she tried not to cry. Triss made a gurgle, blood specks flew out of her mouth as she grabbed at the massive slash across her chest where the huge boy from 2 had cut into her.

A dark shape materialized out from the trees and Woof was ready to scream, and the old anger was building up, but it was that boy, that strange boy from 12 with the blond curls and gentle face, the one who was in love. Peeta Mellark, that was his name. He knelt down by Triss, put her head in his lap, wiped the tears from her eyes. She made one more sound, like a dying lamb. Peeta's hand was steady and quick. There was no hesitation and Triss died instantly.

"Was she dead?" asked one of the Careers when Peeta returned.

"She is now," said the baker boy as the cannon boomed. They marched on, and Peeta let himself fall behind and wiped the tears from his eyes where the others couldn't see. Marvel was making some sort of joke, Cato laughed. Even Clove smirked. The rage built up again and this time it didn't go away.

There was a party that night. A lot of Victors were there, those who weren't mentoring or didn't have a living tribute any more. Brutus was there. Surrounded by young, beautiful people as always. Woof didn't really hear well any more, but he could understand more than most people thought. Very few knew that he could read lips. It had come in handy. Few people bothered to worry about what an old, broken-down half-deaf Victor might overhear and pass on to a clever Gamemaker.

He was watching Brutus now. He couldn't make out everything. But he saw the words 'Cato' and 'sword,' and then he made a horrible gurgling noise as the people around him roared with laughter and that was enough.

Woof picked up a crystal goblet of wine, stomped over to the clique and threw the contents in Brutus's face.

There were screams of horror and gasps and Avoxes rushed in to hand Brutus towels. Woof just stood there and glared.

"It's alright folks, it's alright!" Brutus laughed as he mopped himself down. "Poor old man doesn't know what he's doing any more. Probably thought he was back in the Thirteenth Games! He didn't mean anything by it."

"I did," Woof muttered, although he wasn't sure if Brutus understood him. "I meant it."

Brutus, good-natured as always, winked at him. "I'll get you back for that one, old timer." He turned back to his adoring fans and Woof stalked out into the night, alone.

* * *

He was eighty, and he was stepping out of the water onto the beach, gasping for breath, collapsing onto the sand and clutching his chest.

Brutus's face appeared above him, still smiling. He was holding a spear

"Told you, old-timer," he said. The spear came down.

"Nothing personal, old friend," he said as he pulled the spear out. "Had to do it, you know? I didn't mean it."


End file.
